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Singing in Arkansas |
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I took a couple of days off in March and joined a few buddies on a golf outing to northern Arkansas. Oddly enough, the highlight of the trip wasn't golfing, it was singing. It took us about 11 hours to drive from the Twin Cities to Bella Vista, Arkansas, and we rolled in about 3 in the morning. A few hours' sleep and we were at one of the six golf courses in the area ready to tee off. It was about 60 degrees and after the miserable Minnesota winter, it was like heaven. I didn't play particularly well, but that should have been no surprise. I haven't played particularly well since 1969. It was just wonderful to be out in the sunshine. We golfed about 34 holes that day before we lost the sunshine. Our plan that night was to drive down to Fayetteville, the home of the University of Arkansas, for a good steak dinner and to take in some of the local color. It's only about 30 minutes away. The steak dinner was no problem. We went to a place called Doe's where you can order steak by the pound. There were four of us, and so we order two two-pound hunks of sirloin. When it arrived, both hunks were actually about three pounds. We were four pretty husky steak eaters, and we didn't even come close to polishing it off. Out next stop was at Willy D's, just down Dickson Street from Doe's. Willy D's is one of those places where they have dueling pianos. When we got there, fairly early in the evening, the place was pretty empty because the entertainment hadn't started. We got a nice table not far from the door. Pretty soon two piano players came out and for the rest of the night, it was constant high-energy wailing on those pianos. Plus there was singing and joke telling and birthday celebrations and at one point several members of the wait staff got up on the stage and danced. The guys I was with kept sending up requests for the musicians to do the Minnesota Rouser. In Razorback Country, the chances of anybody knowing the Gopher Rouser were slim and none. Finally after a couple of hours of requests, each one pinned to a dollar or two of incentive money, one of the pianists admitted that he didn't know the rouser. "Who's here from Minnesota?" he asked, and we raised our hands. By this time there were probably about a hundred and fifty people in the bar, and we felt a little sheepish about being the group that had come from the furthest away. "Well, said the piano player, why don't you guys sing the rouser?" It didn't take too much encouragement and off we were off on our musical journey. The Arkansas natives smiled in amusement as we rah, rah, rahed for ski-u-mah. I don't think we excelled in harmony, but we hoped our enthusiasm and loudness made up for it. When we were done, there was a surprising amount of polite applause. The piano player, knowing his audience well, then called for the Razorback Rouser. I can't remember how it went, but you should see 150 people waving their hands in the air and making squealing noises. When they were done, the four of us applauded politely. We were back at our condo by about 11:30 hoping to finally get some sleep. At 9 in the morning we were standing on the first tee and enjoying the warmth and sunshine again. We played a course on that second day that was one of the more interesting of my career. It had one hole where you teed off from cliff about 150 feet above the fairway, straight down. The wind was blowing so hard up on top that it was impossible to keep the ball on the tee. I finally backed off the edge a few feet to get out of some of the wind. In all, we played about 70 holes in those two days. It was grand. In the end, as we made that long trip home, we only had one regret. After the rouser, we forgot to do the Minnesota cheer. M-I-N-N-E-S-O-T-A Minnesota, Minnesota, Yay, Gophers. RAH!!!!
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July, 2008 Women on ships? |
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Women on ships? Last month I alluded to this controversial evolution in the science of Naval warfare. Actually, it's probably not that controversial anymore since it appears that it's here to stay. I spent my time on ship in a simpler era. It was time when you just put 5,000 happy souls on board an aircraft carrier and expected them to get along for nine months at sea. These happy young warriors were from every part of the country. They were of every race, creed and color. They had different jobs and different politics. Yet, somehow it worked out. For the most part, they managed to keep on task and avoid getting their hands around each other's throats. Although, during the end of the cruise -- when the war task was done and everybody had short-timer's disease -- the tensions began to erupt into some violence. The particular problem in those days, the late 1960s, was between blacks and whites. In the last few weeks as we headed for San Diego, I saw several fights on the mess decks. I also heard of one sailor who inadvertently (and probably drunkenly) wandered into a "black" bar in the Philippines and got his clock cleaned. They almost killed him. Anyway, my point is that even under the best conditions, keeping everybody happy on a ship is dicey. It requires good discipline, good supervision, and a certain dedication of the crew toward the common goal of running a good ship. Now, they have added women into the mix. I ran into a guy recently who had served on the same ship I did but about 30 years later, and I asked him how it was with women on board. Now, understand, this was an old, crusty chief, but his answer was immediate. "It's a disaster," he said. He elaborated that the problems caused by having two genders on a ship were insurmountable. Nature will take its course, and nothing in the Uniform Code of Military Justice is going to supersede that spark of romance that can ignite at any time between young, single people. When you have romances, you have all the baggage that comes with it including jealousy, intrigue, broken hearts, hurt egos, and holding hands on the hangar deck. None of that is conducive to a squared away ship. As I said at the top, it's a situation that isn't going to go away. One reason is that the Navy in order to find qualified, talented people is going to have to delve ever more deeply into the pool of female candidates. Secondly, women deserve every benefit and chance for advancement that men do. In the Navy, that means the opportunity to go aboard ships and use their skills. So, then what? How do you make the problem go away? Well, you could have ships that are gender specific, only men on some ships and only women on others. But that's sort of like apartheid in South Africa or segregation in the U.S. -- neither of which worked very well. The Navy, as might be expected, has decided to rely on its centuries-old tradition of discipline. I'm a traditionalist and on ships at sea, discipline will always be absolutely necessary. But there are limits. I am aware of one case in recent years where a young sailor, who had an important job on a ship of war, smoked marijuana at a party. With its zero tolerance program, the Navy booted this sailor out with a less than honorable discharge overnight. Does that make any sense? Everyone should get a second chance, including highly (and expensively) trained young people who are dedicated to their jobs and their service. There must be a smarter way to handle this situation. Maybe flogging is the answer -- at least the offender gets to retain some dignity. On the recent PBS series "Carrier," a model sailor who was actually active in giving lectures on avoiding gender fraternization on ship, had sex with another sailor while the ship was in port. The two had been drinking. They had been out at sea for a long time. The sex was consensual. It was a big mistake. The punishment? This sailor will not be eligible for promotion for five years. That pretty effectively throws his career into the dumpster. The TV show didn't say what happened to the female sailor. Does it make any sense to throw away such a valuable asset because of one mistake? Yes, you've made an example of out this sailor, but was it worth it? I guess what I'm getting at is that harsh, unreasonable discipline will probably not solve the continuing problem of a bi-gender Navy. And harsh, unreasonable discipline will not solve the problem of young sailors smoking dope with their friends. You can't remove the humanity from human beings by immovable, unblinking adherence to a no-tolerance code of conduct. People are people, even if they go to war. Aboard a ship it's imperative that every person can be relied on to do their job. You don't want them spaced out on loco weed or smooching behind the scuttlebutt when there's work to be done. Discipline is necessary. But, and this sounds like treason to the old guard, it might be a good idea to ease up a little bit to make this two-gender Navy work. The problems are not going to go away, so why load extreme punishments on people who make mistakes? How could it be that a petty officer first class could give a lecture on avoiding sex one day and then commit that very act the next? Because he's human. Back in old Navy, where the ships were made of wood and the men were made of steel, we were not allowed to grow beards. (This was in 1969.) And then Admiral Zumwalt issued one of his Z-grams that suddenly opened the door to have beards. At 21 years of age, I had a tough time actually cultivating fur on my face, but when I finally did I felt good about it. I think it made me a better sailor. The Navy was on my side. If there is a conclusion to this meandering piece, it's that putting both genders on a ship is going to produce some real human problems. It's inevitable. To deal with those problems, the Navy is going to have to develop some real human solutions. Blind discipline and hanging sailors' careers from the yardarm isn't going to get it. It's bad policy for the Navy to waste such precious talent, and it's bad policy for the sailor who deserves another chance to prove his or her worth.
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Lifelong lessons This is a fish story. When I was a young lad, my dad liked to take me fishing. Well, maybe he didn't like it, but he did it. My father was one of Minnesota's great fishermen. He loved to fish, and he would be at some lake almost every weekend in the summer trolling for northerns or walleyes, or trying to get a few crappies in the boat. Because he put so much time into it, he became a very proficient fisherman. He won the Alexandria area fishing contest at least twice and maybe more that I recall for submitting the largest fish. People were always asking him advice. When he'd go to the bait shop, the owners would try to find out from him where the fish were biting. He loved every minute of being in the boat, even if the fish weren't biting. His patience in traffic was about three seconds, but his patience in the boat was immeasurable. And that was the problem. I kind of liked fishing when I was a youngster, especially if the crappies or sunnies were biting. My buddy and I used to go up this stream and catch enormous dogfish lurking in the dark holes of the moving water. And I liked doing things with my dad. So when he said, "Let's go fishing," I was usually happy to do so. Out on the lake, however, we'd troll up and down, up and down, hour after hour. And then change to a different part of the lake and go up and down, up and down, hour after hour. By the time I was 12, I'd had enough fishing for a lifetime. Not that I quit fishing. I've spent hundreds of hours in the Boundary Waters with my buddies trying to catch the elusive game fish. But the thought of dragging a line through the lake for hour after hour with no results gives me the willies. I'd rather watch a soccer match, and that says a lot. Fishing is a great sport, but my early overexposure with my dad severely dulled my appetite for slow fishing. Which brings us to this year. Because we're wild and daring and youthful in our outlook, us Edison Class of '66 mates decided to forego our usual Boundary Waters camping spot on the Kawishiwi River and instead try a new spot on Perent Lake. This group of fellows has been going to the Boundary Waters for 42 years now. Left to my own devices, I could probably sit around camp most of the day or wander around the island, if we're camped on an island. The trouble with canoeing, though, is that it usually works better if there are two people in a canoe. And so if one person really wants to go fishing, I will usually get my paltry fishing gear together and join him. We do a four-day trip, and I didn't fish at all the first day. The second day I spent about six hours in the canoe and caught one perch. The third day, we went out for a few hours in the morning, and I got zilch. From my background that I related earlier, you can see that I was pushing my limit for fishing enjoyment. We took a long break at lunchtime in the camp that day, enjoying the warm weather, taking a dip in the cold water, throwing the Frisbee around, and taking pictures of mushrooms. It was a damp island, and there were dozens of varieties of mushrooms lurking everywhere. I knew the time was coming to get back in the boat and so I had to come to some sort of arrangement with myself. I didn't want to sit on the lake for another three hours in a great blue ball of tedium. I made up my mind, I was really going to put some effort into it rather than try and catch a fish by accident, which is my usual approach. John Hoyny, my canoe mate and fellow Polack from Northeast Minneapolis, is an excellent fisherman. He reminds me of my dad. And so I asked John what I was doing wrong. His main advice was to get my propeller jig and minnow all the way to the bottom, and then pull slowly up. I realized that all morning, I had kept my jig off the bottom because I didn't want to get snagged on the rocks. Snags are a bother. I told John that we were on a mission to go fishin' and I quickly got my line down to the bottom. Rather than just imitate one of the Boundary Waters rocks, which is my usual fishing form, I was into it. I was jigging and jagging. My bait was on the bottom, off the bottom, on the bottom, off the bottom. And then the funniest thing happened. I caught a walleye. It wasn't huge, but it was eating size. I was pretty astounded by this turn of events. A little while later I caught another one, and before we headed in I caught a third one. I also lost a couple along the way. I found something out -- and it only took me 50 years to learn -- if you put some effort into your fishing, you get better results. Around the campfire that night, we had more fish than we could eat. The other guys had contributed a few too. And there's nothing in the world that tastes better than walleye you have just pulled out of a cold, northern Minnesota lake. And, so, dad, here's to you as you troll that great fishing pond in the sky. You tried to teach me how to fish, but I wasn't ready. Your lessons, though, are finally sinking in.
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The problem with Legion Baseball The 2008 American Legion Baseball Divison I Tournament has just ended, and it was a fine display of the American Pastime. The folks in Burnsville who were putting on this event did a first-class job. The fields were great, the hotdogs were tasty, the PA announcing was wonderful, and the bleachers were full for most of the games. They even had golf carts to cart the staff from the ballparks to the Legion headquarters office, about a block away. At first, we disdained the carts, saying we needed the exercise, but as the tournament wore on, we would fight each other for the cart, and if the cart wasn't there, you could hear moaning and wailing and gnashing of teeth. The two teams that won the tournament, Eastview as the state champion and Eden Prairie as the runner-up, will represent Minnesota well in the national regionals -- and in the World Series if they can fight their way through the regionals. They are both classy outfits, well-coached and with some pretty talented ball players. So with all that good news, why am I claiming that something's wrong with Legion baseball? Okay, here's a hint: 21-12, 18-14, 22-10, 17-9, 25-11, 16-6. No, those are not the scores from last week's NFL preseason exhibitions. Those are some of the scores from the Department's Division I Tournament. I don't know how it ended up, but we ran a check about two-thirds of the way through the tournament and found that the batters were hitting .342 as a group. There's nobody in the American League hitting .342 right now, but we had a whole tournament hitting at that level. Why? Is the pitching that bad? It's possible that the pitching isn't as good as it has been some years. But mainly, pitching is pitching. I don't think it's deteriorated that much, although I think the kids rely on way too much breaking stuff instead of just throwing heat in the right places. I think the last time Scott Baker pitched for the Twins, he threw 80 percent fastballs. You won't find too many Legion hurlers who throw that many fastballs, and I think it's to their detriment. So, if it isn't necessarily pitching, what has led to the rash of double digit scores? Part of it is nine inning games. Our Legion leagues in Minnesota play seven inning games all year, but the National organization requires us to play nine inning contests once state district play begins. Those two extra innings tend to pile up a lot of runs. I don't see why Minnesota can't play seven inning games if it wants to. National was afraid that we'd be saving our pitching for the regional tournaments. Eden Prairie had to play eight games to get out of our tournament. Do you think they could save much pitching playing eight games in four days? Plus, there's a four-day gap between the end of our tourney and the start of the regionals. That's usually how long it takes a pitcher to recover. The other reason we're scoring runs at a ridiculous rate is the metal bat. In fact, metal bats are far and away the major cause of inflated totals. A friend of mine who has played and followed baseball all his life put it this way: "On every wooden bat, there is a sweet spot, where the ball will explode off the bat. A metal bat, however, is all sweet spot." The Minnesota Baseball Committee has several times sent a rules change request to the national committee asking that the Legion switch to all wooden bats. The folks at National have not been receptive. My opinion is that there are some people who are just a little too cozy with the metal bat manufacturers, and they won't even listen to the arguments for wooden bats. There are two major arguments. One is that wooden bats are safer. This is a tough proposition to prove because a hard hit ball can be dangerous no matter what type of bat it comes off of. I would venture to say, though, that metal bats are more dangerous simply because there are more hard hit balls in a typical game. The best reason to switch to wooden bats, though, is the quality of the game. Metal bats have made the game all offense, with runs crossing the plate like sheep going through the gate. Ninety percent of baseball, someone said, is half-mental, but we're losing the half-mental part. Metal bats are stealing the magic and fun out of the game. Baseball should be full of stolen bases, hit and runs, bunts, sacrifices, battles between the pitcher and hitter, and a thousand other stratagems and traditions. While strategy still survives in the Legion game, it is being pushed aside by constant pling, pling, pling of the ball flying off the metal bats. More offense does not necessarily make baseball a better sport. Arena football with its high scores is not very fun to watch. Hockey would not be a better sport if the net was 10 feet by eight feet. Basketball wouldn't be better if the hoops were twice the size. Why do people think that baseball is better by using an artificial weapon to clobber the ball? As I said, there's not much chance that the National baseball folks will change anytime soon. There may be hope on the horizon, though. Rumor central has reported that ESPN is unhappy with college baseball because of the metal bats, long games and massive scores. Like anything else in life, money talks, and I hear that the college baseball mavens are considering asking the metal bat producers to dial down their bats to make them less lethal. If college makes that step to softer metal, the Legion will quickly follow. But if you're going to dial down the metal bats, why not just switch to wood? It seems to work just fine in all of professional baseball. Wood is part of the tradition of American baseball, and baseball captures our hearts and minds because of its strong and long tradition. In the meantime, pass me some more Cracker Jacks, because this game is going to last a while.
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Music through the Years I had a chance at the National Convention in Phoenix to spend time with my 26-year-old daughter, Larissa. She motored over from Los Angeles where she is a medic and ambulance driver. We had a nice visit. On the last day of the convention, she offered to get up early and drive me over to the convention hall, which was about 10 miles from the Arizona Biltmore Resort and Spa and Prison Compound. The Biltmore is a really nice place to vacation, but it's a long way from anywhere in Phoenix, and if you don't have your car or a rental car, you can certainly feel trapped. And with $4 coffees and $16 bacon and eggs, you're not only trapped but you're also going broke. If you want to get over to the convention activities in downtown Phoenix you can either take a bus, which never seems to show up, or chip in a $35 taxi fee. So, I was mighty grateful when Riss agreed to drive me over on Thursday morning. And it gave us one more chance to chit chat as we made our way through Phoenix's rush hour (not anywhere near as gruesome as the Twin Cities' dash to work.) We got talking about music, and Riss asked me what I thought about U-2. She knows that I'm an amateur musicologist, specializing in the bands of the late 1960s and early 1970s. I had to admit to her that I didn't know one song that U-2 did. I didn't know who was in the band, and I didn't have a clue as to what type of music they played. Larissa was shocked and dismayed. Now, contrary to rumors, it's not true that I stopped listening to music in 1975, and that I'm oblivious to anything that has happened since then. It's only partially true. For instance, I like some of the people still working today such as Mark Knopfler, Jack Johnson, Bela Fleck and even Bob Dylan. I like almost any kind of Bluegrass. What happened to me, though, is that in 1975, it was time to leave the shelter of the Great Gray Mediocrity, the University of Minnesota, and go out into that working world and support my family. So I took a job in Hibbing. Up to that point, we were all pretty tuned into the music scene, and KQRS was the radio station of choice. And the stereo was always on wherever we were living. Toward the end of that era, I was getting into a lot of jazz. I think most people who really love music will eventually fall in love with jazz. (And I don't mean that lite jazz on the radio, which can be okay, but I'm talking about real jazz, like in a little bistro where the tables are crowded and the dudes are really grooving.) So, anyway, now I'm up in Hibbing and there are two radio stations. One plays oldies and one plays country. Plus, now I'm working 50-60 hours a week, and when I'm not working I'm with my family. Music, except for throwing an album on the stereo on Saturday night, had pretty much disappeared for me. So when U-2 came along in the early 80s, I was on another planet. I don't know anything about U-2 or Styx or Sting or Ozzie Osborne or Meatloaf or any of a hundred other singles and groups you could mention. And what I did hear, I wasn't very impressed with. I thought the really good stuff in rock and roll had already been done, and these guys were just riding the wave with subpar imitations. I'm sure it's something of how my dad felt when the Beatles came out. One time I caught my dad tapping his foot to a Beatles' song, and I pointed out who it was he was enjoying. He was greatly embarrassed. In other words, I had a prejudice against the rock and roll that filled out the rest of the century. And I've been unwilling to admit that much quality or innovation came out of that time. Of course, I'm wrong. Although I generally feel that most of the music of the 80s and 90s was bogus and empty, you could probably say that about any era. Even when the Beatles, the Band, Bob Dylan, Van Morrison and dozens of other groups and artists were redefining music in America in those years, most people still listened to popular junk. And I did too. I still sing along to Three Dog Night, Spanky and Our Gang and the Peppermint Trolley Company. So, what about U-2? I looked them up in Wikipedia and that source says that The Joshua Tree was their greatest album, one that both attacked and admired America. U-2 is an Irish group. The entry also says U-2 went from heroes to superstars with that album. Rolling Stone Magazine lists them at number 22 on its all-time list of artists. They were right behind Otis Redding on the list. So, maybe it's time I made up for this ghastly breech in my music education. Maybe I should sit down and listen to U-2 and find out what I missed during my sojourn on the Iron Range. Maybe I should look at U-2's lyrics and see how they stack up with the masters of the earlier days. Maybe I should immerse myself in the aura that is U-2 and enlighten myself. Or maybe I should put on another bluegrass album and relax. |
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Maverick and the Amateurs Sometimes, human relations just don't work out very well. Each year a friend of mine, let's call him Noah, has a card party. It's been going on for about 20 years, and it's always been a source of great enjoyment for the rest of us. He would stage this annual event the night before Thanksgiving. Orginally, it was just guys playing poker, but somewhere along the way it devolved into a Texas Hold 'Em tournament. And that was fine. Once we shot through our wad playing hold 'em, we could just go back to playing poker again. This year, I was faced with an interesting development. I mentioned to my son-in-law, let's call him Maverick, that there was this card tournament. Noah had always encouraged us to bring our sons, and so I though bringing my son-in-law would be fine. Now you've got to understand something about Maverick, father of my three grandchildren. He isn't just any card player. He is extraordinarily competitive and he's been playing cards since he was about two years old. His family is a card playing family, and they don't play for match sticks or buttons. The first time I sat down and played with Maverick's family, I lost 80 bucks. And that was playing cribbage. Maverick often gets into hold 'em tournaments, and he often wins. He has a mathematical mind and that fierce determination to win. I knew all this, but I still put the invitation out there for him to join us at this poker party, which is as much of a social gathering as it is a gambling experience. Maverick was a little iffy on whether he would go, but later that night he met up with some other friends of mine who also attend Noah's party, and they offered him further encouragement to attend. Noah gave me a call that Monday morning of the week of the gathering. It was just a polite formality. I don't think I'd missed one of his soirees in about a decade. I mentioned to him that my son-in-law, Maverick, wanted to come, but I warned Noah that he was an exceptional card player. I sensed some negative vibes in Noah's cautious reply. Later I emailed Noah asking him straight out if Maverick was welcome. It turned out, he told me, that a "ringer" had showed up the year before and had done well at the hold 'em tournament. I guess some of the guests, who are used to the social aspect of the card game, were not too happy that this shark had taken their money. Noah was not too enthusiastic about repeating that experience. In the end, though, Noah was gracious and said it would be fine if he came. I emailed my daughter and jokingly said, it was fine if Maverick came but he should make sure he loses. Ha, ha. I had this worst case scenario in my mind as we all gathered at Noah's house that night. I had this vision of Maverick coming in the door with a big smile on his face and then walking out the door a few hours later with a bigger smile on his face and holding everybody's money. Well, that's what happened. We played a little regular poker first, and that's when I started to get hints that Mav was about to have a big night. He got some good cards and turned them into cash. No big deal, but it was a sign of things to come. Once the hold 'em tournament started, it was like Maverick moved into second gear, or maybe it was overdrive. Now I want to make clear that Mav is not a professional card player. He sells things for a living. But he's probably better than most professional card players. Being in a tournament for Maverick is like being in heaven. He has spent much of his life in pool, cribbage, hold 'em and various other contests. It's his milieu. It's his cup of tea. Personally I was fascinated as this disaster played itself out. It's like going down to the gym to play pick-up basket ball and Julius Erving shows up. It's like sitting around the campfire singing with your buddies, and all of a sudden Garth Brooks sits down. From a journalist's point of view, I was interested in how someone who, assuming he was getting the same cards as the rest of us, could just dominate a setting. The first thing that I noticed was that as soon as we sat down at a table, and we switched tables three times during the night, Maverick instantly knew everybody's name at the table. Noah even has twin sons who I have never figured out, and Mav knew their names and could tell them apart immediately. It was important to him to know everybody at the table, and even to know a little bit about everyone. I guess one word you could use was relentless. I was there to enjoy the vicissitudes of card playing. Maverick was there to win. If he had a good hand he was coming after you, and if he had a bad hand he was still coming after you. And hold 'em is the kind of game (one reason I don't like it) where you can throw your weight around. The hold 'em game was eventually down to three players. Me and another player had about 10 bucks each, our original investment in the table stakes game, and Maverick had everybody else's money. There were stacks and stacks of quarters, as far as the eye could see. I suggested to the other player that we take our money and run, and get back to some real poker. She agreed. We played a little more poker, and then it was time to go home. For myself, while I was somewhat embarrassed to have sponsored Maverick, especially after Noah had warned me about card sharks, I still found the evening to be entertaining. It's not often that us amateurs get a chance to sit in with somebody who's really, really good at what they do. To me it was worth the 10 buck entry fee. I'd do it again just to try my chances against the best. Just like I'd take on Julius Erving even though I know he's going to clean my clock. Noah didn't take it that way, though, and I suppose I can't blame him. He actually sent out a note to everyone with checks enclosed sending them back their money. I thought that was maybe overdoing it a little bit. I probably won't be back at the big doings next year. It's not just that I was the guy who invited the 800 lb. gorilla. There are other reasons. Sometimes it's time for old traditions to fade and new ones to take their place. But I'll never erase from my memory the sight of Maverick, with a gleam in his eye and a smile as big as Texas on his face, raising that pot once again. |
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Good bye, Norm Today I had a call from a Star-Tribune reporter who was seeking information about Norm Sterrie. Norm died on Dec. 31. He was 91. And he was one of my best friends. The reporter asked, "So what kind of guy was Norm Sterrie?" That's a tough question. How can you answer that in a few words about anybody you know? People are complex, and a man like Norm Sterrie was more complex than most. Just consider for a moment that during World War II, Norm flew torpedo bombers in the Pacific. He helped blow ups ships and enemy positions. It was a tough job that required iron nerve, major league flying skills and courage. People were trying to kill you. Now take this same guy and put him in a clinic in the western suburbs of Minneapolis as a baby doctor. It was a tough job that took super intelligence, a dedicated heart and an enveloping kindness and concern for others. So now sum up the character of a man who lead both those lives, and do it in a few words. I can't. I can tell you something about Norm, though. He was one of the funniest guys I ever met. He had a deadpan sense of humor that was beyond compare. In the midst of what might be called a serious conversation, he could drop in a one-liner that was something like a torpedo leaving a TBM Avenger. Sometimes the joke was so subtle that you only knew Norm was digressing was by the twinkle in his eye. The first time I met Norm was at a World War II Round Table at the Fort Snelling History Center about 10 years ago. What I have found from these round tables is that nearly all of the World War II vets have a sense of humor. Some have a great sense of humor. And then there was Norm. He cracked me up that night but good. Later, I was talking to someone, and they said, "Oh, don't you know? Norm has three Navy crosses." This, of course, piqued my interest, and so I called Norm up the next day and asked if I could come over and do a longer story on his military career. With his humor, and his accomplishments, I thought this would be a great story. He turned me down flat. He said he didn't want to glorify war, and he didn't want his story in a newspaper. Seeing a great story slipping away, I went into my best cajoling, explaining, begging and marketing mode. It took a while, but I somehow convinced Norm that my stories simply told about the war and the people in it, but did not glorify it. In the end, he allowed me about a half hour interview that turned into a fairly short sidebar story in the next issue. But it did spark something of a friendship. Over the next decade, I frequently had lunch with Norm at his house on Lake Harriet. He liked to make sandwiches, and they were very good. On occasion, I would mention to Norm that he really should do a book about his life. He sounded only moderately interested, and the project never really got going. Finally, about three years ago, he agreed that we should tackle a book project. Perhaps he could see that his days on this earth were sliding away, and a book could be something of a legacy for his family and friends. So I went out and bought a tape recorder and some tapes, and called Norm up to schedule our first session. He told me he didn't want to do the book anymore. Norm was not a falsely modest person, he was a truly modest person, and the book thing was sticking in his craw. Still, his decision was not a happy one for me. The months went by, and I completed my work on the Ken Dahlberg book. It was published early this past year. One day, I got a call from Norm inviting me over for lunch. Somehow, he had got his hands on the Dahlberg book. I walked in the door and sat down, and he held up that book. The first thing he said was that it was time to do his book now. I was thrilled. Beginning in April or so, we started taping sessions. At first we tried to get together on whatever day we could, but we soon settled in to every Friday morning. You might have heard about the book, Tuesdays with Morrie. Well these were my Fridays with Norm. In the end, I used up every minute of personal time and vacation I had coming, and then some. Thank you, American Legion. We were very dedicated in capturing Norm's life in those tapes, and we stuck to it until by the end of summer, we pretty much had the whole thing down in about 14 tapes. At that point I had to transcribe them, and then start to work with Norm on putting them in some kind of order that made sense. I have to confess, though, that while the work got done, sometimes we would do nothing on our Friday mornings but talk about whatever was on our minds. Those were my favorite visits. Don't get me wrong. Norm was not one to spout philosophy and thoughts on life. It was just a joy, though, to spend time with someone who had accomplished so much, been through so much, and still retained his humor and insight. The reporter from the Star-Tribune wanted me to give some examples of Norm's wit, and again I found that hard to do. Sardonic humor is a little tough to put into a sound bite. Here are a couple of examples, though, of Norm's way of putting things: He told the story about how he won his second Navy Cross. He had already dropped his torpedo at the Battle of the Coral Sea, and that was usually time to high tail it back to the ship. Instead, Norm saw that his skipper still had his torpedo and was going in alone to attack the Japanese carrier. Norm took a position on his wing, and went in for a second bombing run, his purpose being to draw the fire of the Japanese gunners from his commander. Norm finished his story and then looked me right in the eye. "It was a damn fool thing to do. I'd never do it again." When we were searching for a title for his book, which we never did find, we were trying to think of some Navy things we could create a title out of. I noted that the two torpedo planes he flew were the Devastator and the Avenger. "That's it," said Norm, in a dead serious voice. "We'll call it Devastated and Avenged." Or there was the time that Norm was looking through one of the scrapbooks his wife, Betsy, kept throughout the war. He turned a page, and saw a headline in a clipping from Life Magazine. The headline proclaimed, "U.S. torpedoes consist of 6,000 intricate parts." Without skipping a beat, he commented, "No wonder they didn't work." I saw Norm's strength ebb away slowly over the past few months. The last time I saw him, he could barely stay awake during our visit. The simple act of taking his next breath took all his reserves. On that last visit, I had my camera with me, and I took Norm's photo. Despite his condition, the picture was an amazing one. He flashed the same smile that you can see on pictures from when he was in college, or when he was walking the deck of an aircraft carrier, or when he was walking the halls of the pediatric allergy clinic that he started. I always remember what Walter Mondale said in his eulogy for Hubert Humphrey. He said that Humphrey "taught us how to live, and in the end, he taught us how to die." Amen to that. I'll miss you Norm, now that you're up playing clarinet in the heavenly orchestra. But I'll never forget our time together and the great times we shared. The joy of our friendship will never leave me. And I will get that book done this year. I promise. |
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Drinking with the Gophers The flap over the two-tiered drinking policy at the new Gopher football stadium has been an interesting one, and brings out the issue of what collegiate sports is all about. It is, of course, about money. The fact that the high rollers will be able to knock a few back while watching the Golden Gophers march to the Rose Bowl, while the hoi polloi will have to enjoy a sober view of the game has ruffled a few feathers. Some have canceled their season tickets after many decades. Others are just miffed. The Gophers, like any other college program, are caught up in the mad scramble to make it all work. Sports programs bring the university fame and recognition. They give the alumni a place to plug in. They maintain a tradition of the institution and a continuity of striving for excellence (except for those odd gaps in the Gopher basketball record). It's all terribly expensive, as you might guess. It used to be shocking that the football coach made more than the president at a university. Now it's only mildly shocking that an assistant football coach makes more than the president. There is a fine line between running a circus and running a university program, and that line has inched steadily toward the notion that college sports is a mega-business. For instance, our old football stadium was called Memorial Stadium, and it honored the doughboys who fought in World War I. Our new stadium is named after the bank that came up with the most dough to pay for the I-beams and bricks. Marketing has become fierce as the Gophers fight for sports dollars in a crowded sports community. When you walk into Williams Arena, it doesn't say "Welcome to Williams Arena." It says "Welcome to the Barn." A written message on the court reminds you again that you are in "The Barn." We proud Gopher fans have been calling it the barn for a long time, but that was our little conceit about the place. Now the nickname has become a marketing goldmine. Somehow the brazen exploitation of a nickname, however, takes the fun out of it. It's like hearing the Gopher Rouser in the background when Glen Mason was trying to sell trucks on the radio. We have become dulled to the onslaught of commercialism surrounding the University athletics. If you go to the official University of Minnesota Athletics website, you will find some athletics news. It's sandwiched in between the clarions for the "Gold Zone," "Goldy's Locker Room," "Official Gopher DVD Store," "Gopher Preferred Hotel Program," "Gopherpix.com," and season ticket sales. All this seems natural. Somebody's got to pay for Gopher sports. But then a little issue arises, such as the drinking rules at the new stadium, which puts a fresh spotlight on the whole issue of commercialism of college sports. Why can the big boppers drink while the masses must eat cake? It's the money, of course. You can't ask someone to plunk down big bucks (desperately needed big bucks) and tell them they can't have a libation during the contest. These folks are used to these type of amenities from the pro circuit. And you can't allow drinking among the rest because we all know there's a problem with drinking on campuses. Those with money, apparently, know how to be moderate. This slow dying in small steps of the myth of college sports being something pure and bright and golden is probably inevitable. Why even fight against it? What stuck in my craw, though, during this interesting debate about separate but unequal drinking policies at TCF Bank Stadium, was the pronouncement by Athletic Director Joel Maturi that it was okay because athletic programs across the country were doing it. It's okay because everybody else is doing it. Now, there's an ethical rationale to warm your heart. Maybe, just maybe, that kind of elitism doesn't go over in Minnesota. Maybe this is where a college should take a lonely stand and say, "No, wait, this isn't right. We must draw the line somewhere in this mad rush to acquire money. If something's not right, it's not right. Let's try to find the high road of courage and high principles. "Everybody drinks, or nobody drinks." (Moderately.) And perhaps we could just back off a little on the marketing circus that has grown up around Gopher sports. At what point do we kill the Gopher that's laying these Golden eggs?
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East by Northwest, April 2009 I haven't flown on a commerical aircraft for a while, and so I was fairly amazed at how much flying has become one of those really extraordinary events in your life -- like going to the dentist or being audited by the IRS. There are wonderful things about the big birds in the sky. I takes just over two hours to fly to Washington D.C. and about 18 hours to drive there. Like most people, I've been flying all of my adult life, but I'm still shocked and awed by how fast you can get somewhere. But after that speed thing, it's becoming less and less pleasant to fly. Let me use a few examples from my recent trip to illustrate that point. I know there was something in my instructions that they emailed to me every day for a about a week before I left about getting to the airport early. I did get there about an hour and 20 minutes early, but I still almost missed my plane. It started with the skycap outside the door. I don't if it was something I said or if it was how I looked, but he sternly announced right away that getting rid of your big suitcase at the curb was an extra service for which he expected a gratuity. Apparently he thought I was going to stiff him. Once we got that straightened out, and I showed him the green stuff I had in my pocket, he became more helpful and happy. And then he asked me for $15 extra for checking my bag. Maybe it's because I've been watching the commercials on TV about those other airlines that don't charge for allowing your bag to accompany you on the flight, but I didn't realize Northwest (Delta, American, KLM or whatever it is these days) did charge for that service. I even said something like, "No, I have a ticket on that flight," and the skycap started looking at me like I was going to stiff him again. But it finally worked its way through my thick head that they actually were going to gouge me for hauling my bag. I meekly handed him my credit card. Inside, separated from the big bag and only carrying my briefcase and my camera bag, I felt free and alive -- for about five seconds. And then I saw the line to go through the security process. You've seen these kind of lines at Disney World. It started by the door and then wound round and around, going this way and that way, through the roped pathways. You get to stand in line, and then every two minutes or so, you get to push your carry-ons forward with your feet. I still had an hour and ten minutes before my departure time, but I was getting a little nervous. All around me, though, a spirit of true panic was in the air. Several people were almost near tears as the line moved in infinitesimal increments toward the metal detectors. One lady, obviously distraught over possibly missing a wedding, grabbed one of the TSA agents as he walked by. She asked what would happen if she missed her flight, and he replied that the plane would leave without her. She asked if there was anything she could do, and he said there wasn't. He looked at her with true compassion and said, "If only people would put their bags and stuff through the machines faster, we wouldn't have this backup." Ah, I finally understood. I was our fault. It was the fault of the passengers. Nevermind that at this one particular entry point there were four metal detectors and they were only using one. Apparently it was a great surprise to the airport folks that a lot of people fly on a Saturday afternoon. Or maybe they were just punishing me and others for not showing up as early as they had requested. Again, it was our fault. I did make it though the detector area, which in itself is a comedy of frantic proportions. You know there are hundreds of people behind you, some of whom are crying because they're going to miss their flight to their daughter's wedding, and somehow you've got get all your stuff into these large containers, take of your jacket, take off your shoes, take off your hat, take off your belt, and then pray that you'll go through the machine without setting it off and holding everybody up behind you. Needless to say, I was one of the last folks to get on my airplane. Because of that, there was no room anymore in any of the overhead bins for my camera bag. I had to bring it forward like Oliver bringing his plate to the mean guy who ran the orphanage and saying, "More?" Do you have some more room for my bag? The flight attendants looked at me with something approaching scorn and said I'd have to check it. I guess it was my fault that it took 40 minutes to go through security and because they're charging $15 to check bags everybody is carrying on whatever they can and the bins are all full. They took my seat number and sent me back. A little while later, a steward found me and said they had found room for my camera in a bin in first class. I thought that was wonderful. Even if I was stuck in a seat just wide enough for Twiggy's butt and with my knees banging the seat in front of me, it was nice to know that my bag was in first class. The flight was uneventful, except for that announcement about the flight navigation system crashing. By this time I was on auto-pilot though. You can only take so much, and more bad news doesn't really bother you. At the end, I was standing outside the airport, breathing the fresh, cool air of Washington D.C. I had survived yet another journey via a major airline. I had survived the experience. And it has only cost me $407. No, wait, make that $422. I forgot about the checked bag fee. |
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The tour I just completed my 13th National Commanders Tour, and, you know what, each of them has been very educational. Each National Commander is a little bit different, and some of them are quite different. There are some who could wing a 30-minute speech at the drop of hat, and some who couldn't speak off the cuff if their pants were on fire. There are some who have an opinion of themselves that you couldn't fit into the Metrodome. There are others who still seem to have a wonderful sense of humility about them despite the glory of the whole thing. Some of them grind their way through the year, looking forward to the end. Others, like Marty Conatser last year, would be willing to start another year the moment the first one ended. They can't get enough. After four or five days on the road with these guys, Lyle the state adjutant and I are ready for the Happy Valley convalescent home. The tour is grueling to say the least. Not enough sleep, five stops a day, too much food, and the need to stay on top of the proceedings takes a toll. What always amazes me is that when the tour is over Lyle and I need major recuperation, and the National Commander and his aide hop on another plane and head off to another state to start all over again. I once asked Minnesota's Past National Commander Dan Ludwig how this is possible, and he said that holding that office brings with it a major energy rush that carries you through the year. I do have some fond memories along the way through those 13 years. I remember the courage of National Commander Joe Frank who had to endure the tour in a wheelchair. It's one thing to make those five stops a day, and quite another to have to be hoisted out of the car and into the car at every stop. My admiration after those five days knew no bounds. And to this day, if our paths cross at a convention, he will always go out of his way to say hello and chat. That's in contrast to some National Commanders who seem to have forgotten your name by the time the van stops at the last dinner. I remember going up to one of our leaders at the end of a tour to say goodbye, and I swear he didn't know who I was. This was after five days in a van together. The ultimate weather challenge was the year John Brieden of Texas was with us. Duluth was our first stop, and by the time we left that fair city, there were 20 inches of new snow on the ground. Driving was nearly impossible, but Lyle somehow got that van from one post to another. That night the temps dropped drastically, as they often do after a major snowstorm, and most of rest of the tour was in temps ranging down to minus 30. We called it the 20/20 tour for the snowfall and temperatures. At one point, a post got Brieden outside to take pictures while sitting on a snowmobile. It was about 25 below zero, and Brieden was in his sport jacket. I put on my winter coat, and I was still very cold. Brieden must have been freezing his enchiladas off, but he never stopped smiling or posing for the folks. And then there was the time we almost killed National Commander Tony Jordan. The strenuousness of the tour probably contributed to his getting pretty ill, and he had to take a day off and recuperate. His aide, who had probably heard Jordan's speech 300 times by then, carried on without a hitch, delivering the same speech by memory. We do a little more preparation now, but there were times when finding the post was on about a par with finding Shangri-la. One time we ended up in North Dakota by mistake. This year's tour was one of the best, although the weather again was a problem. As we headed south from Baudette (take a look at a map) we drove straight into a snowstorm, and it never quit for two days. Lyle again should get some sort of Congressional award for superlative driving. Mostly it was a good tour, though, because of National Commander Dave Rehbein. Hailing from our neighbor to the south, Iowa, Rehbein had greater leadership qualities than many others I've seen through the years. He was great to be around, and about as down to earth as an oak tree. His aide, Milt Heifner, was pretty much a saint. It's a long way from East Grand Forks to Baudette to Cambridge, but once again we survived. We made an unscheduled stop at the VFW post in Princeton on the last day, and even with hardly any notice we had about 35 Legionnaires on hand. Amazing. There was a tattoo parlor next to the post, and as we were leaving someone asked me if I had got my tattoo. I told them that I had "I survived the 2009 National Commander's Tour" tattooed somewhere on my anatomy, but I wouldn't tell them where. |
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The Necessary Let's talk about outhouses. A few weeks ago, I thought I knew everything I needed to know about privies. Our family bought some land in Wisconsin as kind of a hedge against the future of my 401K, or what's left of it. I knew that the chances of having the women in the family come up and use the land were directly proportional to having a privy available, and so that became my first priority. I got books out of the library. I talked to knowledgeable friends. I became a virtual living fount of information on outhouses. Plan A came from a fellow worker who had also recently purchased property and had needed a privy. His solution was to buy a used base to a porta-potty and then built the outhouse around it. That option was fairly cheap and seemed fairly easy. He said that he then has a porta-potty company come in a couple of times a year and do their thing. Back in the old days, they called it honey-dipping. Plan B came from a friend who has owned property up north for many years. His solution was to use a 55-gallon plastic drum as the vault for the outhouse. He said he only has to have it emptied every four years or so, and another friend of his with the same setup has only had to have his emptied once in eight years. Plan B had some advantages. For only thing, the access to the middle of my property, where the outhouse would likely be located, is road that was pushed through by a bulldozer. It's exactly one bulldozer blade wide, as I can see by bark knocked off the Norway pines. Until I can do some work and widen that access road, I doubt that a septic system truck could get through. Putting the barrel in would give me a few years to get the road fixed. Plan B also had another advantage. I found some plans in a book for a government-designed 1906 outhouse that could be built, according to the reprint, by a 14-year-old with average intelligence. Now, this would still be a challenge to me, but I was willing to give it a try. The 1906 outhouse would fit well right over the barrel vault. I was ready to go. I even went and spent $25 for a plastic barrel. And then I called the Rusk County, Wisconsin, zoning office, and had them forward to me the permitting papers and the zoning restrictions. That's when the outhouse planning hit the fan. I was flushed with excitement, but all my planning went in the dumper. My brilliant thinking was in the sewer, in the toilet, in the commode. I was really down in the pits. It turns out that Wisconsin requires a vault (not the kind you keep your money in) of at least 200 gallons. So much for my dinky little barrel. When they sent me the permitting information, they also enclosed a flyer for a company in Rice Lake that supplies Fiberglass Privy Vaults. They look pretty neat, with the stool already installed. But there are a couple of problems. First, they cost $600, which is not in the budget. Second, the 1906 outhouse that I had set my hopes on will not work, without some major redesign, over the $600 vault. So, now am I back to Plan A? I still don't see how I can get the porta-potty guy down my winding road to empty it out and put new blue juice in it. I've called a few places about 200 gallon vaults, but they all point to the guy who sells them for $600. When it comes down to it, I'm not sitting pretty. My dreams have been wiped out. Here I sit broken hearted. I paid $25 and the State of Wisconsin won't let me get started.
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The Supernatural I'm not a big proponent of the weirdly supernatural and how it plays into our lives. The natural forces are enough to keep me busy. But there was an occurrence the other day that made me wonder. It all started when a friend of mine, whom I've known since high school, called me up a month or so ago and said, "Al, I drove down your street last night, and I think your house is gone." He was referring to my ancestral home in Northeast Minneapolis. Well, I figured that my friend had had one too many brewskies and had driven down the wrong street. How could a great, big house disappear? But just to be sure, a couple of weeks ago I drove to my old neighborhood, the place where I had spent my formative years, and stopped the car at 3130 Benjamin Street. It was gone. My house was simply gone, vanished, evaporated, vamoosed. Even the garage was gone. Even the apple tree in the back yard was history. That particular day was dark and stormy, and no neighbors were out. I decided that when a nice day came along, I'd return and knock on doors if I had to. What had happened to my house? This past Sunday, my wife and I got on our bikes and made the eight-mile trip to my stomping grounds. Pulling up in front, it was still kind of a freaky experience to look at the place where I had lived for 16 years (from age two to age 18 when I joined the Navy) and gaze upon an empty lot. A lady across the street was working on her gardening, and I approached her first. She said that the house had been there one day, and the next day it was gone. Just then, I saw somebody walking around the empty lot picking up debris the bulldozers had left behind. I crossed the street and asked the man if he was the owner, and he said he was. His name was Vince, and he seemed like a pretty nice guy. As we walked around the lot where my house once stood, he filled me in on the gory details. In the years after I sold the house, after my mother died in 1997, the new owners had not kept the property up. It had been sold again and maybe again, but very little had gone into keeping it up. A dozen years of neglect had left the house in pretty bad shape. Vince told me that he tried to buy the house in 2004 to fix it up, but the price was too high. He was able to buy it this past year as a HUD house or something like that. He was given the choice of either rehabbing it or tearing it down. He had 45 days to make up his mind. He told me that that the house smelled so bad, he could hardly stand to be in it. He wanted to fix it up, but in the end he chose to hire a demolition team and rip it down. It cost him $14,000. We wandered about the lot talking, and at one point we were standing directly under an old ash that my dad used to take care of. My dad had a unique system of keeping his trees under control. He would hack off all the major limbs of the tree leaving only a bouquet of stumps emanating from the trunk. It looked like the tree had been massacred. We called it, "the Polish cut." My mother would complain vehemently about the ugly remains of the tree, but my dad would assure her that it would grow back. And, you know what, it always did. And when it grew out too much, he would give it the Polish cut again. So, Vince and I were standing right under this tree when there was this incredible crack from just above us. It sounded like a thunder clap. I can't describe to you how loud it was. Vince and I covered about 30 feet in a dead run from under the tree in about three-fourths of a second. We thought the whole tree was coming down. When we turned around and gazed up at the tree, Vince said, "What was that?" I turned to him and said, kind of half-jokingly, "That was my dad. He wants to know why you tore the house down." Vince just stared at me. It turned out that the crack had come from one massive branch breaking off the tree. As we stood there, it cracked further and further until this very large branch was resting on the roof of the neighbor's house. Now, I know in my rational mind that that it was just a pure coincidence that this branch would break off, emitting this loud crack at precisely the moment that Vince and I were standing under the tree -- at precisely the moment when the son of Joseph P. Zdon stood on the property for the first time in 12 years, discussing the disappearance of the family home with the guy who removed it. It was just pure coincidence. Never mind that there was only about a ten mile per hour wind blowing that day, whereas the week before there had been some 40 mile an hour winds. Never mind that this was a tree with so much family history involving my dad. Never mind the mathematical odds. Pure coincidence. Vince and I and our wives chatted a few more moments and then it was back on the bike for the long peddle home. As I worked my way up some of those long hills in New Brighton, I couldn't help but wonder about that tree. Was that really you, dad? If it was, I see that your sense of humor is still intact up there in heaven. You just decided it was time for that tree to have one more Polish cut.
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Protecting the Flag
Nations have ways to bind themselves together. Some have long histories going back a thousand or several thousand years. Some have monarchies that unite the people behind a common symbol. Many nations have strong ethnic ties. Many have unique geographical features, such as being an island nation, that draw the people into a single purpose. The United States of America really has none of these. We have our flag. Can a piece of colored cloth tie such a disparate, wildly divergent nation together? The American flag is not really even a great piece of art or design. Stripes and stars. A Madison Avenue design firm could do better in a hurry. But it's our flag. For 233 years, the nation has rallied behind an iteration of this flag. It's the one symbol that binds us. From the fronts of our houses to public buildings to the coffins that bring home our heroes who died in war, the flag is our common element. When the U.S. was attacked by terrorists in 2001, and the nation sought unity to deal with the deep national wound, the flag was everywhere. It's the piece of cloth that makes us whole and makes us united. Should we protect this flag, this national symbol from desecration? That would appear to be a no-brainer. Hundreds of thousands have died rallying around this national symbol so that the rest of us can live free. We can't have people who are trying to make a political statement messing with the flag. It's an abhorrent thought. There is, however, a strong argument that can be made against a constitutional amendment to protect the flag. That argument has to do with the First Amendment to the Constitution, the first section of what we call the Bill of Rights – perhaps the soul of our national law. I've been a newspaper editor all my working life. I carried the First Amendment in my hip pocket to work for all those years. I believe in it. Further, I understand the impelling need to protect it. Unless you have absolute freedom, you don't have that freedom at all. The First Amendment, with its protection of freedom of the press, of expression, of the choice of religion, and the right to assemble, has contributed to making this a great nation. But that's why we have amendments. There are exceptions – for good reasons. Jefferson's theorem that all people are created equal seemed clear enough, but ingrained prejudice and hatred led us to go through the difficult process of creating and passing amendments that protected and liberated people of color and women from national and local laws. Amendments are the exception to the rule. Freedom of speech is a core value of our nation and that right is a foundation block of our democracy. But the flag rises above. This is the cusp of the argument: Should we protect our freedom of expression at any cost, or should we protect our national symbol from those who would destroy it to promote their particular slant or value? The flag should win. It is too much the national symbol of our history, our unity, our national determination, our national purpose, our national pride to be used for political gain. Our flag, because of its uniquely dominant role in drawing the nation to a common brotherhood and sisterhood – to remind us of where we've been and where we might go – is too important to allow its desecration as a political statement. There are other ways to make a point. The flag is sacred. It's the exception to the rule for which the system of amendments was created. The process of amending the Constitution was deliberately determined by our founders to be slow and thoughtful. This particular amendment is wise. It's in the best interests of the republic. The flag is who we are, and the law of the land should provide it with the most basic protection. |
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Baseball in New Ulm New Ulm is a pretty interesting place. This year we had our Minnesota American Legion Division I Baseball Tournament there, and so I got to spend five days in that fair city. After 20 years of living in Hibbing, I'm used to small city life. I appreciate the friendliness of the people, and their willingness to help out a stranger. For instance, we do a little newspaper at the tournament. It's just a couple of sheets of paper with stuff on both sides, but it's necessary to get it printed somewhere so that it's ready to go the next morning. When we're in the big city, I usually can find a Kinko's or Fed Ex or one of those all-night places. Of course, I have to stand there and wait for them to copy it, or I have to copy it myself. This can be kind of a drag at one in the morning after a long day at the ballpark. At New Ulm, a young woman named Donna Helget at a company called Master Graphics said why don't you just drop it off the night before and we'll have it ready for you in the morning? That sounds great, I said, but I notice that your sign says you're not open on Saturday or Sunday. No problem, said Donna, just drop it off and I'll come into work and get it done for you. Sez I, on your day off? No problem, said Donna. Somehow, I can't imagine the manager at Fed Ex making that same offer. And she charged me about half of what one of those big companies would have charged. New Ulm is just a crazy baseball town. When you go into the Perkins, mixed in with the pies by the front counter are about a dozen baseballs. When I went into the post office, the guy behind the counter saw my baseball regalia and asked me what the scores of the games were. I said I wasn't sure because I'd been running errands for a while, but he said, nevermind, I'll be down there in 15 minutes. They've been playing the nation's pastime there since Abner Doubleday invented the game, and they've been very good at it. They have won five state Legion championships through the years, starting way back in 1934. My compadre at the tournament, assistant editor of our little newspaper, John Sherman, interviewed a fellow who played on that 1934 team. The old timer recalled that other teams got mad at New Ulm because the coach of that team would mentor them in German. High on a hill overlooking New Ulm is Herman the German, a statue that would strike fear into any enemy of the fatherland. Herman looks like he could call down thunderbolts at any time. I think it would be better, though, if Herman was holding a baseball bat and pointing it out toward the left field wall where he was about to blast one of his own thunderbolts out of the park.
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Twins Memories, October, 2009 I had tickets to what was supposedly the final game at the Metrodome for the Twins, but it turned out that was also the weekend that was selected for our annual canoe trip. So I gave the ducats to my sons, and they went. They even stayed for the program that followed, including the naming of the top players ever at the Dome. I listened to it on the radio, as I came back from Ely, and it was fun to hear all those names again: Hrbek, Aguilera, Gaetti. Following the all Metrodome team, they had a special on KSTP on the top 10 all-time moments at the dome. That too was fun. On that long drive, I had time to contemplate my own top ten, actually 11, events I personally witnessed at the Hubert H. Humphrey Metrodome. These are in no particular order:
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Christmas in Minnesota I've become kind of a Christmas curmudgeon over the years – not quite Scrooge, but not too much removed from bah, humbug. The reason isn't that I don't think the birth of Jesus Christ isn't worth celebrating. In this world, I think it's more important than ever to give thanks and celebrate the Prince of Peace. My problem is that the Christmas season, compared to that of my childhood, has become both much longer and much emptier of real meaning. It's a personal problem, I know, but I can't seem to reconcile it. Christmas for kids can be so wonderful. On Christmas Eve, my brother and I were allowed to open one present from under the tree. You had to pick carefully with the idea of getting a game or toy. If you got a shirt, well, you were stuck with it. You could watch your brother play with his toy while you were stuck with that shirt. On Christmas morning, my mom and dad had a little treasure hunt. They would give you the first clue, and then you'd have to find that present wherever it was hidden around the house. When you opened that present, you'd get the next clue, and so on until you'd pretty much ransacked the entire house. It was a blast. Later, there would be a massive gathering of three families, sometimes four, with more presents and the annual funny presents that people had been planning all year. The thing I remember most about Christmas, though, was that kind of a warm glow of anticipation and love that happened somewhere along the line. Yes, it had to do with getting presents, but it was just generally a really good feeling that you had for everybody. Where did that go? Have I become too old, too jaded, too cynical, too analytical? Yes, all of those are true, but there's more to it than that. There are too major problems with Christmas, and they are related. The season is too long and it's too commercial. I know that's not breaking news for anyone, but it hasn't gotten any better in recent years. It has become accepted that the day after Thanksgiving is now the official opening of the Christmas season. I know that wasn't true when I was a youngster. Kids may have been marking of the days on their calendars, but November was way too early to get into the frivolity. There's one popular radio station in the Twin Cities that plays nothing but Christmas music after Thanksgiving. I've solved that problem by removing that station from my push buttons. I don't want to hear Brenda Lee rocking around the Christmas tree four weeks before the holy date. I'm going to be blunt here. I think part of the root of the problem is that we've become way too materialistic and dependent on artificial means to seek joy. I've had at least a half dozen people this past week ask me about my Christmas shopping. That seems to be the standard conversation opener for this time of year. The shopping has become the major activity of Christmas, except for one other – the drinking. Unable, perhaps, in this commercial, impersonal world to find that Christmas feeling, many people try to drink their way into joy. And you known what, you can do that for a few hours. The downside is the chemical hangover and the misery you bring those around you and to yourself once your happy hour is over. So, now we end up with people frazzled and depressed because they're supposed to feel good and they're not. They can't get the Christmas spirit by shopping until they're broke and they can't sustain it by drinking until they're stupid. Mental health professionals will tell you this is the most destructive time of the year. Is that what Jesus had in mind? I heard someone lamenting that with the tough times, this was somehow going to be less of a Christmas. I see it the other way. The tough times give us a chance to back off from the pseudo-Chistmas we've come to worship and to maybe get back to the real Chistmas that we remember – even if that memory has been enhanced by time. We've got to fight our way out of the clichés of Christmas – shopping, old movies, cookies, Brenda Lee, Eggnog drinks, massive house light displays, boxes of seasonal knickknacks on every shelf and counter, and that false bonhomie of happy holiday greetings. Somehow, we've got to get back to what we started with – that warm, lustrous, kindly, peaceful feeling in our hearts that we could share with others. Everyone has to figure out for themselves where they've gone wrong, but if we all try to curb some of the vices of Christmas, maybe we can find our way back to some of the virtues. |
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New Year's Eve We were talking about the various New Year's Eves we've all experienced through the years. Some have been fun, some have been dramatic, some have been less than memorable. My all time less-than-memorable New Year's experience happened while I was in college. We had gathered at an apartment where a couple of friends of ours lived, and the place was rocking. There were people from wall to wall, the music was loud, and a good time was being had by all. At about 10:30, for some inexplicable reason, one of the female guests at the party decided to sit on the sink in the bathroom. I suspect that alcohol may have influenced her decision. The sink, not prepared to that type of usage, promptly disengaged itself from the wall and clunked to the floor. This would have been okay, except for the torrent of water pouring out of the broken pipe. Do you remember in the movie Titanic when the iceberg ruptured the side of the ship? This was about the same volume and force of water gushing out into the bathroom and beyond. Very quickly there was about three inches of water all over the apartment floor. For a few minutes, this was pretty funny, and people took their shoes off and danced on the liquid floor. Being the Boy Scout type, and seeing the horrified looks on the faces of the ladies who lived there, I set off down the hall to find the cutoff valve. I finally located some kind of mechanical room, and there it was, a big lever that shut off the water. By the time I got back to the party, the initial euphoria over the flood had died off. In fact, most of the guests were getting on their coats and were making a quick exit to other parties that weren't so sodden. I had gotten a ride to the party (I was smart enough not to drive on New Year's Eve) and by the time that it became clear to me that there wasn't going to be a party at this particular apartment, nearly everyone had left. In fact it was just me and the two ladies and their boyfriends. Talk about a fifth wheel. I settled into make the most of it, but as the midnight hour approached, I was alone on the couch, listening to the radio as the new year arrived. There's something very shocking and sad to be alone on New Year's Eve. But there I sat with my bare feet on the couch, contemplating the long walk home. The DJ on KQRS began counting down the seconds to the new year. Every count was like a dagger to my heart. Somewhere out there, people were having fun. Somewhere out there couples were getting ready to kiss. Somewhere out there was a party that didn't have two inches of water on the floor. I don't think I could have been any more miserable. As the second hand reached the 12, the radio announcer said, in a voice like a funeral director's, "Happy new year." "And now," he continued, "here's the Eve of Destruction." I'm sure many of you don't remember the Barry McGuire song, so I'll refresh you on the lyrics. They went something like this: Don't you understand what I'm tryin' to say Can't you feel the fears I'm feelin' today? If the button is pushed, there's no runnin' away There'll be no one to save, with the world in a grave [Take a look around ya boy, it's bound to scare ya boy]
And you tell me Over and over and over again, my friend Ah, you don't believe We're on the eve of destruction.
It wasn't exactly Auld Lang Syne. But you know what, the heart can only take so much pain. By the end of the song, I was actually laughing. There comes a point where misery is replaced by a humorous admission that it just can't get any worse. It was time to go. I was pretty sure I had seen one of my shoes float by a few minutes earlier. And, now that I'm old enough to have experienced scores of New Year's Eve parties, I can truthfully say that no matter how dull or insipid these events might be, every one of them since then has been much, much better. |
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The Diamond Awards Each year, the Minnesota Twins and Minnesota Medical Foundation stage an event to give out a batch of awards to players and others. It's held on the eve of the Twins Fest which means the players probably will be there to get their glass trophies. At $150 a ticket, it's probably not an event I would normally attend. It sounds like fun, but I could go golfing seven times at Viking Meadows Golf Course for that money, and have 20 times as much fun. Or I could go to a half dozen Twins games and have 20 times as much fun. So, I never gave it much of a thought, even though I'm a rabid (as in foaming at the mouth) Twins fan. But this year was different. This year, Jim Peck, the dean of American Legion Baseball coaches, was to accept the Terry Ryan Award for his contribution to amateur baseball. It's a very prestigious trophy for Jim and for the entire American Legion Baseball program. If I wanted a picture for the Minnesota Legionnaire, I had to be there. So, there I was, rubbing shoulders with the other high rollers at the Hilton Hotel in downtown Minneapolis. I realized that not everyone there was on a first-name basis with the Pohlad brothers. Many companies buy tickets and give them to their employees. Still, it was a nice, well-dressed crowd and I tried to be on my best behavior. The whole floor where the ballroom was located was filled with silent auction items. After all, the event was a fund raiser for the MMF to help find cures for neuro-muscular diseases. I quickly realized that this was not an auction like the American Legion might put on at a state convention. There were no homemade pillows, or Beanie Babies or 1968 bourbon decanters. This was amazing stuff. For instance, one of the items on the auction block was a complete Lasik surgery, both eyes. Starting bid was $2,400. I passed that one by. There were dozens of baseballs signed by various players, past and present. Opening bid: $40. I passed those by. There was a framed series of pictures showing Bob Allison's famous catch in the 1965 World Series. Opening bid: $300. I passed that by. In fact, I passed them all by. My only hope was to find a Twins bat splinter from Spring Training. Opening bid: $1.49. But there were none of those. I saw that KSTP was broadcasting live from the event, and when I ambled by, they were interviewing Jim Thome, the new 39-year-old designated hitter. Thome looked good. In fact he looked a lot better than Brett Farve, expecially after the NFC championship game fiasco. They started blinking the lights so we would all come into the banquet room. I was walking around taking picture, which is what I usually do. As I made my way back to my table – way in the rear of the room – I had to go by the main door. There were two well-dressed men just inside the doorway, not moving. They were apparently waiting for someone to tell them where to sit. It was Michael Cuddyer and Joe Nathan. I quickly hoisted my camera and captured their images forever in digital splendor. I thought I should say something, and so I said, "Don't you guys have a ticket?" I thought that was pretty funny, but Cuddyer looked at me and said, "Get out of my face, grandpa." No, he didn't say that. But he didn't look too warm and fuzzy about my humor either. Oh, well. Once dinner was over (it was good, but I've had a lot better in a Legion Club, particularly the broasted chicken I had a Cambridge a couple of weeks ago), it was time for the awards. Denard Span, Nathan, Cuddyer, Justin Morneau all came up for their honors. Joe Mauer came up twice. I think it's got to be very tough to be Joe Mauer these days. He's probably the nicest guy in the world, but I don't know how anyone can put up with constant adulation he receives and still maintain a healthy relationship with the cosmos. But he seems to manage it. It was very nice to see Peck get his trophy. It was presented by Kevin Smith, head of the Twins Public Relations, and a long-time friend of Peck's. Dick Bremer asked Jim a couple of questions, and Jim answered very well. And that was that. There were a couple more awards to be given, but I headed for the door. I'd had all the fun I could stand, but I didn't want to get caught in the traffic rush from the parking ramp. It was great. I wouldn't have missed it for the world. I'd never even consider going back – unless I won the lottery or something. But for one glorious night, I got to shine with the stars. |
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Winterlude |
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Winter contains so much beauty: The gentle fall of the snowflakes. The trees silhouetted against a field of snow. The subtle colors of the woods. The sun glinting off an exposed piece of ice on a frozen stream. Winter also sucks. It's way too long. You can't play golf. It's cold. You have to shovel the snow. Your fingers get numb. You fall on the ice. You get so cranky being inside all the time that you fight with your family, friends, co-workers and total strangers. So, while I'm sitting here waiting for winter to be over (it was five below zero this morning) I am fondly remembering some of my favorite winter stories. The first year I had my driver's license, actually the first winter, they had this massive ice/slush storm in Minneapolis – and then it froze. While it was still semi-liquid, the cars created these ruts, four or five inches deep, down the middle of all the streets. The ruts soon became permanent. It was actually kind of fun. You could pull your car onto a street, put your tires in the ruts, and let go of the steering wheel. It was just like being on a train. This went on for many weeks until we had a thaw. Another winter story didn't even take place in Minnesota. I went to boot camp in San Diego where usually the weather and the people are pretty balmy. Somewhere along the way, though, we encountered a cold snap. Now, cold in southern California is like when it gets to be about 50. Really, really cold is when it gets into the 30s, and that's what was happening this particular week. It was no big deal because we were wearing our chambray shirts and blue jackets, and we were marching everywhere. We stayed warm. On this one particular morning, though, the temp hit 32 degrees and set all kinds of records for San Diego. Also on that day we were told we'd be marching to where they took the pictures and that we should put on our dress whites. No jackets. That was a cold march. Us guys from Minnesota were whining a little bit, but the guys from Hawaii were just about petrified. We marched to a spot right on the ocean where they had put these risers for picture taking. I'm sure somebody had a bright idea that the pictures would look cool with the ocean behind the recruits. Well, that wind was whipping off the ocean with massive gusts and cutting through those dress whites like we were naked. I was born and raised in Minnesota, but I can tell you truly that I've never been so cold as I was standing around waiting for that picture to be taken. My teeth were chattering like a pneumatic drill and the rest of me was shaking too. Sea cold is a different kind of cold and one that I'd be glad to never experience again, at least not in my dress whites. I lived in Hibbing for over 20 years, and that was a memorable weather experience. The problem with the Iron Range is not that the winters are colder, which they are by about six to 10 degrees, but that they last so long. Pretty much every year, you could add about three weeks to either side of the cold season. That extra six weeks of misery was tough to take. The joke was that if summer fell on the Fourth of July, we'd have a picnic. Enduring those winters was mainly just a hardship, but I was young and peppy, and I survived just fine. But there were at least two occasions where I was actually full of fear and trembling at the conditions around me. I was the editor of the newspaper, but I also helped out on sports. On one occasion, I ventured up to International Falls for a hockey or a basketball game. It was pretty cold going up there, but coming back, the temperature just fell out of the bottom of the thermometer. It was probably between 35 and 40 below zero. Highway 53 is the main route to and from the Falls, and it's usually fairly well traveled along that 80 or 90 miles. But on this Tuesday night, or whatever it was, there was nobody on the road but me. Everybody else was too smart. I had the heat in my little Chevrolet Prism company car cranked to the max, but it was only putting out about a half a BTU every 10 minutes. It was getting mighty cold in that car. My fear was that the car would suddenly give up the ghost on that lonely highway, and before another car came by, I'd be frozen stiff. That may seem unreasonable, but I was actually pretty terrified. I never was happier than to see the lights of Hibbing ahead. I had a similar experience right in Hibbing one January night. Sen. Rudy Boschwitz had come to town and they had hosted a little dinner-dance fund raiser for him. Of course, as the editor, I had to go over and take pictures. It was about 35 below zero. Now it wasn't all that unusual for it to get that cold on the Range. But usually when a cold snap like that fell on Hibbing, the air was as still as a whisper. The only wind chill you encountered was from your own footsteps. On this night, though, there was just a raging wind, 20 or 30 miles an hour, coming right out of the north. To have your skin exposed for even a few seconds meant frost bite. I made it from the Kahler Hotel back to the newspaper office. I had to do the film that night so it would be ready for the newspaper in the morning. I just left the car running because I knew that shutting it off would mean I'd probably be sleeping at the Daily Tribune office. I developed the film and printed up a picture and started my two-mile journey up First Avenue to my home. It was so cold that it was like there were no springs at all in the car. It was like my butt was dragging on the road. I could feel every nook and crevice like they were the Grand Canyon. Now, again, this might seem unreasonable, but I was nearly scared out of my wits. If my car quit, I had my doubts whether I'd be able to reach any nearby house before I became the front page story in the next edition. "Editor found on sidewalk, his fingers clutched around his notebook and pen, stiff as a board." I haven't been frightened by the weather for a long time now. Twin Cities winters are fairly mild compared to the northern Minnesota variety. But you know what? They still suck. |
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Worst Golf Shot When the guys gather around the popcorn boats and the table tents at the clubhouse, talk will sometimes turn to one of the standards of duffer conversation – "My Worst Golf Shot." In my case, I could probably find an example in every round I've ever played, but under the pressure of "can you top this?" I will always dredge up this short story. It was back in my college days, and my buddies and I had decided to play Columbia Golf Course in Minneapolis. It was our stomping grounds, the place where many of us from Edison High School learned, so to speak, to play the game.
It was a beautiful day, and the course was packed. It was jammed with golfers as only a city course can get jammed. At every tee box, two or three or more foursomes waited to tee off. The waiting was not only a drag, but it meant that every time you hit a tee shot, you had a little gallery of experts watching intently. For my fragile game, such scrutiny was unwelcome. The incident happened on one of those holes that's no longer there at Columbia. The course was rebuilt some years ago. This hole was a par four on level ground with a massive hill rising off to the left. Finally, it came our turn. I teed up my ball and looked nervously around at the 20 or so golfers perched around the tee. Now I knew how Arnold Palmer felt at the Masters. I took a couple of practice swings. Sometimes I would hit a long drive, straight and true, but more often I would slice the ball wildly to the right. I once hit a bus on Central Avenue with that slice. With all the curiosity seekers staring at my form or lack thereof, I was pretty self-conscious. Golf is embarrassing enough, but golf in a crowd can be the epitome of humility. But there was only one way to escape the rabble and get to the relative peace of the fairway, and that was to hit the ball. I dug my tennis shoes into the turf, took a firm grip on my wooden driver, and took a mighty swing, as I always did. Drivers, by design, have the largest clubface. If you can hit the ball anywhere on that clubface, it will go somewhere. If you can hit it on the screws, and I actually had screws on the face of my driver, it will scream toward the distant hole. I didn't quite get all the clubface on that particular drive. In fact, I only hit the ball with the very end of the club, which I think they call the toe. But I did hit it hard. In seeming defiance of the laws of physics, the ball went at a direct right angle to the way I was trying to hit it. It went like a rocket. Those gawkers who thought they were safe by being off to my right had their comeuppance. They scattered quickly as the little white sphere zoomed by their heads. The ball traveled about 40 feet in a heartbeat, then hit a tree. It stuck. It made a loud thwacking noise, and just plain stuck into the tree. There was a hush in the gallery as the impact of what had just transpired sunk in. And then, just like at the Masters, the onlookers slowly broke into a very polite applause. Clap, clap, clap, clap. I don't remember much clearly after that. With head hanging, I made my way to the tree. There was my ball, about four feet from the ground, embedded in some rotten wood in the old tree. Somehow I dislodged the ball, put it in my pocket and headed off down the course. Behind me, the applause was still echoing. I think I could hear some snickering. My sense of self esteem was shattered, but I survived to play again. And maybe that's what's great about the game. There's little else you can do with your life that can teach as much humility in so many unique ways. I just hope the tree was okay. |
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Good Joke Okay, here's one of my favorite jokes. Nobody likes it but me. Ike and Mike are walking down the street when they see a corpse laying in the gutter. Ike and Mike pick up the corpse, each supporting it by an arm, and walk into the nearest bar. They prop the dead guy up on a bar stool and order three beers. Ike drinks his, Mike drinks his, and Mike reaches over and drinks the dead guy's. They order three more beers. Ike drinks his, Mike drinks his, and Ike reachers over and drinks the dead guy's. This goes on for several hours. Finally, Ike and Mike get up from their bar stools, slap the corpse on the back, and thank him for a wonderful evening. Then they walk out of the bar. The bar tender walks over to the dead guy and says, "That will be $78." The dead guy doesn't say anything. The bar tender, getting a little agitated now, says in a much louder voice. "The bill is $78, and it's closing time. I need you to pay your bill and be on your way." The dead guy doesn't say anything. The bartender is very agitated now. He shouts at the corpse. "Hey, what's the matter with you? Pay your bill and get the heck out of here." The dead guys doesn't say anything. In a rage, the bartender winds up from left field and socks the dead guy in the face. The corpse goes flying across the room and comes to a halt against the opposite wall. Ike and Mike come rushing back into the bar and kneel down by the corpse. "You killed our friend," says Ike. What could I do?" said the bartender calmly. "He pulled a knife on me."
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Don't change baseball Recently, a pitcher for the Detroit Tigers had retired 26 batters in a row. The 27th batter hit a grounder to the right, the first baseman made the play to the pitcher covering, and the batter was retired. Perfect game. Oh, no, wait. The umpire blew the call. One of baseball's greatest historic accomplishments was negated by a bad call. Recently, the Minnesota Twins were in the 10th inning versus a West Coast team when an opposing batter hit a grounder to the infield. A tough play was made, and the runner was retired at second. On to the next inning with the Twins still in the game. Oh, no, wait. The umpire blew the call. The Twins lost the game because of a bad call. Obviously, there's only one solution to this. We can't have human error interfering with the proper outcomes of games. We must have instant replay. We have the technology to see every play from several angles, why not use it? Professional football has been using it successfully for years. Awaiting the result of a challenged play in football, tennis, baskeball or hockey has become part of the drama of American sport. Instant replay is the only solution, and the commissioner and the owners should act on it quickly. Baseball needs to be saved from the frailties of human judgment. Or does it? Or is that human element one of the charms and essentials that makes baseball the classic national sport – America's Pastime? Television and its related technology have had a great impact on all our sports. Everything from weird scheduling to instant replay have become part of the games. The changes have been dramatic. Except for baseball. Oh, yes, they have allowed instant replay on home run calls. The foot is in the door. Technology has become part of the process, and with the perfect game boot, the murmuring for full replay will now become shouts and demands. In fact, those who would oppose electronic invasion of the sport will now be considered fuddy duddies or worse. Those who cling to the notion that baseball is part of our heritage, that it must be kept as pristine as possible, and that its idiosyncrasies are as important as its rules, will be trampled by a new rush to judgment. Let me just throw one more reason out there, though, for keeping baseball at a human level. Every kid who plays baseball in America, from the Little Leagues to high school to American Legion, plays by the same rules. It's the same game throughout. In fact, it's exactly the same game that was played when Babe Ruth or Jackie Robinson were playing. The pitcher's rubber is still 60 feet, six inches from home plate. The bases are 90 feet apart. The plate is 17 inches wide. And the umpire is the final arbiter of all decisions and rulings. There is a constant sameness of the game that is incredibly important to its charisma. When that American Legion pitcher throws his best fastball up there, and the hitter lets it go by because he thinks it's off the plate, and the umpire yells, "strike one," it's exactly the same experience that their counterparts in the big leagues experience. But what happens now if every play is subject to electronic correction at the Major League level? Now you have two different kinds of games. Now that historic river of baseball uniformity flows unabated until it reaches its highest level, and then it flows no more. No, that won't work. Being able to do something is not a good reason to do it. Accurate calls are not a big enough reason to screw up the game. Don't destroy the heritage just so some televiewer can be assured that his team got a fair call. Life is not fair, baseball is not fair. Live with it, and enjoy it.
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Dangerous work The last book gave me a hernia. We came out with War Stories in 2002 as a fund raiser to make money for the World War II Memorial which is now gracing the grounds of the Minnesota Capitol. The book contained a bunch of stories of Minnesota war veterans, and we did pretty well. In the end, we sold about 3,500 copies, and made about $70,000 for the memorial. Did we get a mention at the dedication? No, but then we weren't in it for the glory, were we? But a little mention would have been nice. The book was surprisingly difficult to get together. You'd think, with all the stories already written – they'd all appeared in the Legionnaire – it would be a piece of cake to make a book. And if I just turned them over to some publishing company, it would be easy. They could design the cover, they could design the interior pages, they could proof the copy and write all the headlines and captions. That, of course, would have cost us thousands of dollars and would have taken money away from our contribution to the World War II Memorial, for which we got no mention. So, at that time, I decided to desktop publish the book myself, and send it to the printer as a done deal. It really was a huge amount of work, but it was well worth it in the end. But that was only the beginning. Books themselves don't weigh that much, but when you get three or four thousand of them together, they are a formidable heap of stuff. There were boxes and boxes and boxes of the books that had to be put away in our storeroom in the basement. As we sold them, they had to be hauled up, a box at a time, so that they could be sent out to the purchasers. In the course of moving all those boxes around, I noticed that I was getting kind of a pain in my gut. It took a while to develop, but then the doctor gave me the final word. I had a hernia. Thank goodness for Worker's Comp and the miracle of modern surgery. I only actually missed a couple of days of work, although I wasn't lifting boxes for a while. That experience, however, might be why I've let eight years slide by since that book, even though I've got plenty of stories to do a new book. I don't mind the work of putting the thing together, although it comes up to about six or eight hours per story. It's a labor of love. Moving boxes, however, is just plain labor. Anyway, the new book will be out this month. The last one had about 27 stories in it, and this one will have 35. The last one was about 180 pages, this one has 304 pages. The last one sold for about $20. This one will sell for $25. I don't know if the stories are any better in this one, but the quality of the book might be a little better. We had a really wonderful design/proofreading team that made War Stories II a really high quality product. This time the money will go toward American Legion youth programs such as Baseball, Boys and Girls State, Oratorical and Legionville. You'll get a great book and the knowledge that your contribution – not a part of it, but all of it because the Legion paid for the book in advance – will go toward those youth programs. Meanwhile, on July 27th, a large truck is going to pull up to the loading dock of the Veterans Service Building and disgorge boxes and boxes and boxes of books. They will have to be moved to the storeroom. But I will be more careful this time around. One hernia in a lifetime is enough for any author. |
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