A Christmas too white…

Hello again. I hope all of you out there somewhat salvaged your Christmas holiday. Anyone who had anything scheduled for Christmas Eve through Sunday in the Upper Midwest had to have been affected by the monster storm that just kept dumping snow on us. It turned out to be one of the whitest Christmases of my life.
As I believe I mentioned in a recent blog, I’ve been fighting with an ailing leg over the past couple of months. I’ve had to resort to using a cane to get around town, eliciting catcalls of “old man” and “gimpy” from passersby. On the bright side, if these hecklers are standing close enough, I can whack them with my wooden appendage.
Unfortunately, having a bad wheel is exacerbated when it won’t stop snowing and scooping/snowblowing becomes an around-the-clock job.
That’s where my bossy little sister Darla comes in.
Mom and Darla arrived on Christmas Eve afternoon to join us at the church service and spend the night. Christmas with Kathy’s family scheduled for that evening had already been postponed and the Wilmes gathering scheduled for Christmas Day at the Senior Center was in jeopardy.
Waking to piles of snow Christmas morning I found that somewhere over the years Darla got the idea that she is the boss of me (she isn’t) and commanded me to stay inside while her and Kathy cleared the front and back driveways and sidewalks of snow. I resisted at first, but I could see it might come to blows, and although I had a portable “whacker” with a rubber tip, I refrained from using it. I still have to sit through the story (now legend) that I used to hit her on the head with books when we were kids. I don’t want to be in the nursing home someday and hear how I used to whack her with my cane “back when we were middle-aged.”
So Mom and I watched through the window as they soon realized that shovels weren’t going to do the job, and they had to pull out the heavy artillery…the 20+-year-old Jacobsen snow blower.
A.K.A. “The Beast.”
They soon found out what I already knew. The Beast works best between April and October. The rest of the year, not so much.
It got them through about 85% of the blowing, however, and that was enough make room for any family members who may show up later in the day.
We ended up canceling the Senior Center and the decision was made to host the celebration for all who could make it to our house. This is now referred to by Joe, our cat, as “48 hours of hell.” He is still shaking off the after-effects.
We had a great time, although sorely missed the family members who couldn’t be with us. By Christmas night, sleeping arrangements included just about everything except the cat trees—and Joe thought people were sleeping a bit too close to them also.
By Saturday afternoon, local small engine repair dude Don Kuhn had my snow blower “purring like a kitten,” and I was able to widen out our paths once I was out from under the iron thumb of my sister.
Late Saturday afternoon we were able to gather with everyone who was able to make it from Kathy’s family, so the holiday wasn’t a total loss.
With a four-day New Year’s weekend approaching, I intend to spend my time NOT shoveling or snow blowing—my choice, not Darla’s.
If, however, she has the urge to call and tell me to kick back and watch some movies, who am I to argue?

You might be a Grinch if…

I hope everyone is enjoying the season to the fullest. I’m in full Christmas music mode on my iPod…yes, I am somewhat of a girly-man. I love the season and the snow and the music and the lights. Unfortunately, I’m nursing a gimpy left leg this year, or I would be once again enjoying the shopping also. I have 11 months to get my leg back into shopping shape for next season, however.
Next week I get to spend some time with my two favorite groups of people. Kathy’s family will gather at her dad’s farm on Christmas Eve for lots of great conversation, food and laughter. About the time I think I’ve recovered from the Christmas Eve feast, I’ll start all over on Christmas Day with my family for several more hours of merriment. I can hardly wait.
I would like take a moment to thank everyone who takes time to read this stuff every week…and especially those who took the time to read my column through the years in the local newspapers.
I have so much to be thankful for this year. When your life’s plan gets taken from you unexpectedly, it tends to knock the wind out of your sails. I was so fortunate to find employment after being sent out into the job market when it was at its bleakest. I’m truly blessed.
In order to enjoy Christmas to its fullest, I will be taking another week off from this blog…because I can… So I’ll wish you a Merry Christmas now. I hope you all get to spend time with people you love.
There are some of you out there, however (you know who you are), who tend to put up a Grinch-like front when the season rolls around, but I know deep down that you folks enjoy Christmas more than you are letting on…you might as well admit it.
To those of you who suspect you may truly be Grinch-like, there are a few telltale signs. Here are my Top Ten Signs You Might Truly Be A Christmas Grinch…
10. You are green.
9. Your favorite Christmas song is performed by those annoying barking dogs.
8. Your picture is on the bulletin board at the North Pole Post Office.
7. You think Blitzen is that dude on CNN.
6. Years of coal smudges inside your stocking.
5. The neighborhood kids have nicknamed your yard “Mount Crumpit.”
4. You find yourself repeatedly telling people where they can put there figgy pudding.
3. Your favorite Christmas activity consists of dipping lutefisk in white chocolate and serving it to unsuspecting kids.
2. You have a sore puzzler.
And the number one Top Ten Sign You Might Truly Be A Christmas Grinch…
1. Right after Thanksgiving each year you put up your “Lords not permitted to leap on premises” sign.

If your name is Clay…stop reading here

Okay, okay…yeah, I know I said I was only taking a week off from the blog blather, but you just never know what life will throw at you… That, and the fact that I don’t HAVE a newspaper deadline every week anymore, so it’s not like I’m losing any income. You people start sending me checks and you’ll get a blog every week, like clockwork.
I’ll start by picking up where I left off. I must admit that I was shocked by the number of people who asked me to “send their best” to Meghan, the newest member of the Wilmes family. I should mention here that there are family members I’ve been writing about for over a decade and nobody’s sent them their best. One fresh face and everyone is fawning over her. Just another reason for my brother Clay to feel overlooked… Fortunately for him he can feel a bit special, being the only male in the family eligible for a discount at Perkins.
Oh, and Meghan wasn’t actually at the Wilmes Family Thanksgiving celebration (she was with REAL family) on the Saturday before Thanksgiving, but we acted as if she were. We gathered for the semi-traditional family pie picture, and inserted her via the wonders of Adobe Photoshop. I’ve included the picture here, but don’t tell Clay if you talk to him. As we were posing for the picture, he refused to be included—“…this picture isn’t going on the Internet is it?”
After I assured him it wasn’t, he agreed to pose.
We also haven’t told him his driver’s license had to be rescinded. We just tell him the car doesn’t start.
Wait till we try to explain why Meghan is in the picture.
The celebration was splendid and I truly had plans of taking only a week off from blogging. We trekked to New Ulm to spend the traditional Thanksgiving Day with Kathy’s family. Lots of great food, board games and laughter were served. I spent the rest of the weekend trying to catch up on odd jobs I had lined up at home, as well as rehearsing for the Opera House Christmas Show. It was good.
About Tuesday of last week, however, things began to go sour. Something hit me overnight on Tuesday, and when I got up Wednesday, I knew I wasn’t going to work. As a matter of fact, I would only put in another six hours the rest of the week, and those were not much fun.
Headache, fever, chills, sinus infection, dizziness, nausea and the inability to stay awake laid me out flat for the remainder of the week. I can’t say I ever remember sleeping that much in a 72-hour period over the course of the rest of my life.
Fortunately, I was once again beginning to feel human by Friday evening, when we had another rehearsal for the Christmas Show. Another rehearsal on Saturday, as well as the two actual shows, and I was ready to call it a week.
I would like to send out a big thank you to all the participants for another wonderful show, and to all who came to see it.
There is always at least one fun anecdote each year. This year it belonged to me. I’ve been singing “O Holy Night” in the show for 12 of the past 13 years, as well as once a year at Danebod Lutheran Church. In the evening show, I forgot the words to not one, but two of the three verses. It was a train wreck. All that was left was for me to stumble forward and crush someone in the front row. Thankfully, I was spared.
Oh, and I got my biggest round of applause in years. I promised if they came back next year, I would sing the remainder of the song…
Just to warn you all, I’ll also be committing bloggus interuptus on Christmas Week. Yes, another break. So you might all want to send your Christmas Greetings to Meghan early.
I’ll probably write one next week, though. We’ll see.

Meghan who?

My family is getting together for Thanksgiving this weekend. There are several in this little corner of Minnesota who know a little bit of history from this event, it was well documented in my weekly column during my newspaper years. Who can forget the great gravy shortage of ’02? You may recall my dismay over the year I inadvertently scheduled a wedding photography gig on the same day as Wilmes Thanksgiving, and the photo my family sent from the dinner table. Then there was the time my sister Barb put the chocolate milk in the mashed potatoes…
Of course the downside of having a son/sibling/uncle/nephew/husband/stepdad who writes a weekly column is this: what happens at family gatherings doesn’t necessarily stay at family gatherings. I regularly have trotted out anecdotes—from embarrassing to amusing—over the past dozen years. Time and again I am reminded that my family members are pretty good sports and can take a jab in the spirit in which it is intended. They also have a talent for landing a few jabs of their own. I readily admit I have made myself a target for unfair ridicule from my brothers and sisters.
The stuff that goes out for public consumption, however, has some of the warts removed and I generally keep a lid on a few of the more personal antics. Last week, however, my family found out we probably have been sharing some of our more intimate thoughts with a complete stranger over the past couple of years. Apparently, despite her efforts to warn us…
I will be the first to admit that my family has an above average sense of humor. Having the best sense of humor in the family, I should naturally be the one to make that judgement… Last week, during a typically amusing exchange of emails among my family about food assignments for Thanksgiving and a debate on how long my brother Todd and his wife Susan has been married, we were jarred by the fact that we have been sharing a bit too much information with a young woman named Meghan Wilmes. Turns out she has been included in mass emails originating from my brother Clayton, as well as all the “reply all” responses…some of which have gone on for days, even weeks. In the middle of a rather intense discussion of pie, we received the following email:

Hello to all,
I've been following your emails which have made me laugh. I wish I could come to your Thanksgiving....homemade pies!!!! I know I've told a few of you but apparently not everyone, I'm not actually in your family. :) It seems many of you have my email address saved as a Mark Wilmes and although I do have an uncle Mark I know its not the same one. Anyway, just thought I would send this to everyone because I've also received family pictures and some emails about people with medical conditions which may be urgent at times.

I hope you all have Happy Holidays!

Meghan

I could almost sense the dead silence of my family members as they mentally reviewed the emails and pictures that have been sent out in the past, in an attempt to assess the collateral damage we may have inflicted on this young innocent person. That silence wouldn’t last long. My sister Barb called and we were laughing so hard we could barely speak.
I couldn’t stop going back to the line, “I'm not actually in your family. :)”
It doesn’t take a baseball bat to the head to get through to the Wilmes family, by golly.
A little history: Back in April of 2007, I signed myself up for a web-based email account, enabling me to communicate from my laptop when I was out and about. In Clay’s address book, a combination of an old work email and my new web-based address was added, instead of the actual address. This merging of old and new ended up accidentally making Meghan an innocent bystander in the affairs of our family. We still really don’t know which pictures she has seen and how much she knows about our past medical conditions, and she isn’t saying. We do know, however, she can identify family members from photos.
Despite the faux pas by Clay, entering the wrong email address, I have somehow been blamed for the mix-up by at least one family member, as is revealed in the following missive:

Well, if Mark didn’t feel he was so important as to have a dozen different e-mail addresses, then maybe we wouldn’t have this issue and poor Meghan could live her life in peace.

Nicole

This is troubling, as I really only have three email addresses (home, web-based and office, the last of which I was forced to take, regardless of my perceived “importance”), so I am a bit worried about who Nicole is communicating with by way of those other nine email addresses.
Of course, never being a family to back away from being entertaining, everyone continued to include Meghan in the follow-up emails, and even sent her a family picture and invited her to Thanksgiving (you will notice I included the family picture, in which Meghan graciously added her own picture and sent it back to us). She still can’t get rid of us.
Of all the places those loose cannon emails could have been sent, in the end it turns out Meghan lives in Hugo, MN.
That’s not all…
That “uncle Mark” she referred to??? He and his wife are members of the same church as my sister Darla up in Cloquet.
I would guess that Meghan still hasn’t heard the last from us. I personally added her to my address book. How could we not send her a picture from this weekend’s family gathering? It wouldn’t surprise me if she gets invited to the annual Wilmes Family Board Game Weekend at Clay and Linda’s in the Twin Cities in February.
Of course, I’ll have to send her the link to this blog…
In the meantime, whether she likes it or not…welcome to the family Meghan. Sorry.
Oh, and we’ll be expecting photos and descriptions of your medical procedures in the coming weeks. It is only fair.
You have our addresses…
*****
Don’t look for a blog next week...although maybe a picture. I’ll be attending Thanksgiving II in New Ulm with Kathy’s family. I’m giving myself the week off. If you signed on to this blog recently, take the opportunity to scroll down and check out the archive of previous blogs.

Waiting for the beep…

Is it only me, or does everyone my age try to keep a constant vigil for signs of his or her own early-onset senility, or whatever it is called these days. I’m guessing that the word senile is no longer politically correct. I constantly wonder how long before I’m considered by others to be a doddering old fool. In my younger days, I always felt a twinge of pity for elderly people who were obviously beginning to slip in to a semi-sentient state. Now that it is I who is showing early signs of becoming doddering, I’ve picked up an entirely new perspective. I find it a constant source of amusement—which I would assume has become a growing font of consternation for the younger members of my family.
I now have to wear my keys around my neck. I had no choice. I work for a company where I need to swipe a plastic fob and punch in a code in order to have access to part of the building. If I don’t remember to bring it to the office—37.1 miles from my front door—I am required to go home and get them.. Knowing my proclivity for misplacing my keys, I took preventative measures and acquired a lanyard with my SecurID OTP key fob, my HID access key fob, the key to my ignition, the remote to lock and unlock my car door and the key to the front door. This memory-assist method is all held together by the fact that I have to drive my Trailblazer in order to get to work, making it impossible to leave home without the rest of my essentials. This should save me from ever adding 74.2 miles to my commute. The lanyard (if used without fail) will prevent me from placing my keys on the canned fruit shelf in Maynards when I’m choosing my Mandarin oranges.
There are some symptoms of doddering, however, that just can’t be fixed.
I’m reminded of the day earlier this year, when I was standing in Scott’s Electronics in Tyler, waiting patiently for the customer ahead of me to finish. A cell phone started ringing. Not, I thought, an unusual sound in a business that sells cell phones. After three rings, I noticed all three of the others in the room were looking at me. I smiled and made a “don’t worry, I’m in no hurry” sort of gesture. It wasn’t until after I left the building that I noticed the missed call beep notification coming from the front pocket of my pants. Apparently the sound of my phone ringing cannot travel out of my jeans, over my belly, and to my auditory canal with enough volume for me to notice. My retro-active amusement was slightly elevated by the fact that I remembered thinking when I was standing in Scott’s that someone else had my same ring…
There are other signs...like the day a couple of weeks ago when I went to work showing signs of doddering. It seems I started my morning by fastening button two in hole three, button three in hole four, button four…well, you get the picture. There is no beep notification for something like that.
Back in October I showed up one week early for my doctor’s appointment. I noticed it AFTER I had, earlier in the day, demanded that my blood test results be ready by 4:30 PM. At the check-in counter, Darla tried to soften the blow. “That’s OK, Mark, you aren’t the first patient to do something like that,” she said, carefully avoiding the word doddering.
I got a good laugh from that one.
On a regular basis, MY end of a conversation will sound something like this:
“I saw what’s-his-name today…the guy that lives on the old…um…oh man, what was the name of those people…you know, they live down the road from that guy with the comb-over we talked to in church Sunday morning…”
Most of this stuff is fairly harmless fun, of course. I do worry a bit about when I will start taking it to a new level, though.
I had a real scare in the front yard the other night. Kathy and I were bagging leaves and she made the comment, “not sure if you noticed, but you have a pile behind you…”
My heart leapt to my chest.
I was scared to look.
Turns out she was talking about leaves…but it took a few minutes for the fall color to drain out of my cheeks.
Sometime in the future, if you see me in my front yard with my shirt buttoned crooked, my front pocket beeping and something behind me on the lawn, do me a favor…just smile and wave.
You’ll know I’m having the time of my life.

Consider it my gift to you…a week off

For those of you who remembered to set your clocks back over the weekend, I hope you enjoyed your extra hour of sleep. For those of you who forgot, that is why you were the first one there every place you went this week. I’m feeling so refreshed, in fact, that I’m taking the week off from writing a column. You just received another five minutes of spare time this week.
You’re welcome.
I won’t leave you completely high and dry however. I would like to introduce you to the newest blogger in my extended family. Some of you may remember from the days when I was the publisher of the Lake Benton News and the Hendricks Herald, I had an occasional columnist named Brian Driscoll, who penned the column, “Brian in the Big City.” Brian, my nephew, has always been the family “yarn spinner.” The following link will take you to his newly launched blog spot. His site will have a place where you can contact him about how to be notified when he posts a blog. I will also have a link on the top left corner of this page.
This week I am sending to an extended list of people. To those who are new to my blog, I have been writing online for the past few months. If you scroll down on this page, on the left you will see the archives if you wish to go back and peruse what I have been doing since I was run out of the newspaper business. If you would like to be added to the weekly email notification list, you will receive a link to this blog whenever a new one is posted. Thanks again to all who have been reading over the past few months!

Link to Brian in the Big City: http://brianinthebigcity.com/
Email if you would like to be added to the “Off the Mark” blog email notification list: markwilmes@gmail.com.

Dr. Snow…going where no man had gone before…

I was a fool when I was young.
I didn’t drink alcohol often, but when I did, I drank too much. The ’71 Pontiac GTO I drove could go way too fast and could get to “way too fast” in a hurry. I didn’t get enough sleep (same as now, only then it was a conscious decision) and my school habits—and later, my work habits, suffered due to that lack of sleep. I spent more money than I made. Kudos to me, however, for never sending a text message while I was driving…although I occasionally switched 8-track tapes on the fly.
I was still leaning towards “fool” eight years ago, as was proven by the video blog I posted earlier this week.
Of course, this could be said of most of the human race. I would assume there are responsible young people who never commit any of these errors, but for the most part when we are young we live with gusto and don’t put much thought into long-term consequences.
Eventually, most of us “grow up” and start using a bit more common sense. Inevitably, we try to pass on to the younger generation what we have learned, hoping we can save them some of the pain we suffered when we finally learned some hard lessons about life. The unsolicited advice is usually greeted by a roll of the eyes.
Before a person knows it, though, you wake up one morning in your life and you are struck with the realization that you are 51 years old. Fortunately, sooner or later even fools start looking at ways to reduce the risks in his or her life.
Included in that newfound sense of need to prolong your life, comes a vigilant indulgence in practicing preventative medicine.
You make trips to your local clinic to have someone keep an eye on your heart, your lungs, your prostate, your breasts and yes—your colon.
On Monday morning, four people got up close and personal with mine.
Most of you out there know the routine. My routine started Sunday morning, when I was only allowed to have Jello or chicken broth for breakfast. Twenty-four hours of fasting had begun when I opted instead for a Diet Dew.
No problem. I would spend the day preoccupying myself with entertainment, interspersed with a little work here and there.
It turned out that the biggest challenge, outside of watching the fourth quarter of the Vikings game, was the premixed cocktail I was required to start drinking mid-afternoon. At 2:00 PM, according to my handy instruction sheet, I was to start consuming a keg of clear, mildly chalky-flavored beverage. I was asked to pound down eight ounces every 10 minutes until it was gone. This task sounds like it would be very difficult. It is actually much more difficult than it sounds. OK, it was only a gallon, but I thought I would burst by the time I finished my final eight ounce glass. I was so happy to be finished that I could have danced a jig. Once the beverage began to kick in, it wouldn’t have been prudent to be dancing any jigs. As a matter of fact I spent the next couple of hours walking very gingerly on my frequent journeys to exorcise the beast within.
The next morning at the Tyler Healthcare Center I was briefed thoroughly by Dawn on what was about to happen. I signed a few papers that said it was OK if I died from the procedure and before I knew it, I was outfitted in a breezy gown and lying on my side in the procedure room. A team of four readied the equipment as Dr. Snow again explained the procedure and reminded me that “nothing is without risk” and that it wasn’t inconceivable that I could end up dead.
I was soon submitted to some “conscious sedation” and the last thing I remember clearly was the widescreen video terminal being placed perfectly in my viewing range and me thinking that I wasn’t all that sure I wanted to watch. I needn’t have worried. I was apparently in a twilight sleep for about 30-35 minutes and I barely remember anything.
That half hour could best be described as…well…have you ever been engrossed in an exciting movie, and you vaguely realize there may be some activity at the back door, but you really don’t care? Well, it’s kind of like that.
I was told I would also be given an “amnesia drug,” but considering that is my usual state, I really didn’t notice any difference.
Dr. Snow came in to visit once my head had cleared. He was bearing pictures of the petite camera’s sojourn, not unlike, I suppose, images sent back from Voyager.
I’ll refrain from any jokes about Uranus.
That, however, reminds me of the final shot—a photo with the camera turned back to shoot the cable actually feeding into the “entrance.” Many who have known me over the years would say that is my normal view…
The great news was that the investigation revealed no problems and I won’t need a repeat performance for another 10 years.
So with a sigh of relief, I will continue to try to stay ahead of any more health issues and I would recommend the same for all of you. I will also continue to drive sans texting…although admittedly, I have difficulties texting while sitting on the couch.
Hopefully, the trauma will eventually fade for any of you readers who have suffered as a result of the images I have just created in your mind. At least you didn’t have to see the printouts.
The bright side is that I won’t be writing about colonoscopies again until about October of 2019.If you are still troubled a day or two from now, you might want to pay a visit to your local caregiver. They have this drug that helps you forget...I think.

The Year the Grinch Tried to Steal My Christmas...

OK, here it is...the infamous Christmas lottery winner video.
The year was 2001, or otherwise known as the year my sister-in-law, Cruella, tried to steal my Christmas.
You will notice at the beginning of the video, my wife, Kathy, throwing a ball of wrapping paper at the videographer (Cruella) and pointing to me. Yes, my wife was in on the cruel joke also.
The only other thing I would like to mention is that you will have to pardon may language when I find out I've been hoodwinked. Hopefully, you won't be offended. Just think of the words YOU would use if you lost $10,000...
Click this link to view, "Hook, Line, and Sinker." http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=10f2FWwHS-8

Can’t…stop…blogging

Writing a newspaper column for nearly 12 years was an arduous task. It seems I whined about it regularly during my newspaper days. “So,” the average person would ask, “why would you continue to do this to yourself…for free?”
First of all, it was kind of for free when I was an editor. I got paid the same every week whether I wrote a column or not.
In the weeks after I was run out of the business, however, I had many gracious former readers who told me they missed my ramblings. This was normally immediately after I told these people that—no, I would NOT be starting a new newspaper, no matter HOW much they begged me.
Been there…done that.
Of course these days there are tens of thousands of bloggers out there on the Internet. The very few who have a large readership attract enough advertising to make some nice money, but most of us do not. I read someplace on the Internet that the average blogger is “a 14-year-old girl blogging about her cat.” I, of course, am a 51-year-old who…well…occasionally blogs about his cat.
Most bloggers, they say, do it mostly for themselves. It gives people a creative outlet, of sorts. The average blogger gets fewer than 10 hits per day.
My blog gets an average of 22 “unique” hits per day. That is, 22 different computers are recognized as opening the page at least once. I get an average of 35 “page views” per day. That means that 22 computers have opened the page 35 times during a 24-hour period. That could be the same person going in multiple times from the same computer in that day, or maybe two or three family members going in to read it from the same computer on the same day. For the sake of argument, though, we’ll just leave it at 22, meaning over the past 2-1/2 months I’ve been doing this, I’ve averaged around 154 readers per week. Far short of attracting advertisers, but enough so I know somebody out there is interested in my ramblings. Add in another handful who do not have Internet in their homes, and I know are reading printouts of the blog who don’t get counted, and maybe we hit 160.
These 160 people comment from time to time about what they’ve read. Most are complimentary. As long as I don’t let any politics creep into my blog, all are complimentary. It seems the “other side” doesn’t really feel a need to keep their comments civ…oops, there I go again.
Of course it is hard to tell how many even get to the end of the blog before they move on to something else. I would guess if I’m writing about the Minnesota sports scene, more than a few “X” out after the first paragraph. Fortunately for me, they are still counted as a “unique” hit.
We’ll see how many can fight off the urge to click out next week when I review next Monday’s colonoscopy.
Some people respond immediately with comments on the blog site, on facebook or by email. After last week’s column, for instance, I had several who were offering their services to help me protect my $50 million. So far I have a security guard, house cleaner, pet sitter and landscaper hired.
My sister Darla was offended that I’m not taking calls from siblings after my windfall. Fortunately she forgave me long enough to allow Kathy and me to visit her in Cloquet over the weekend, however. (I got to see FOUR movies during our stay. Maybe I’ll share some of my fortune with her after all!)
Then there is Albert Jaspersen in Tyler, who regularly sends word that he misses the newspaper days when I regularly dished up the dirt on my wife and kid, as well as my sister-in-law, Cruella.
I might point out that dishing up dirt on my wife when I’m working 70 hours per week and dishing up dirt on my wife when I’m working 40 hours per week is a big difference. We have enough uncomfortable silence in our house without me stoking the fire.
Cruella of Mankato, however, is a different story. After last week’s blog, I was reminded of the time she slipped me the fake lottery scratch-off card at Christmas. For about 120 seconds, I thought I had won $20,000. She even videotaped my astonished celebration. It wasn’t long after I received everything documented on a tape entitled, “Hook, Line and Sinker.”
This event went a long ways towards earning her current title.
If I can figure out the technology, I’ll upload the video to this site in the next couple of days. Those of you who don’t have Internet might have to pay a visit to your neighbors and have them type in http://markwilmes.blogspot.com.
Bottom line…thanks to those of you who read this stuff every week. Please pass it on to someone you think might be interested. Maybe someday I’ll hit that magical 200 per week level and leave those teenage kitty bloggers in the dust.

Willing to sacrifice for the good of mankind

I recently read a story online about how horrible winning millions of dollars in the lottery can be for certain individuals. The story told of eight lottery winners over the past 20 years who are now without a dime, or worse.
The story told of one woman in New Jersey who won the lottery twice, a total of over $5 million. She now lives in a trailer house without any money left. She told the reporter that “everybody wanted her money,” from relatives to friends to strangers. Oh, and she liked to spend some time at the slot machines in Atlantic City. Another gentleman won $1 million and proceeded to buy helicopters and ride in limos. His lawyer added that he spent the rest on a divorce and crack cocaine.
One family won over $4 million and went broke after buying a large home and they succumbed to repeated requests to help relatives get out of debt.
There were many stories of gambling or drugs or risky “overseas investment opportunities.”
In nearly every story, there were problems with family and friends. The general rule, according to one expert, is you have choices:
1. You can keep your money while losing friends and alienating family,
or 2. Keep your friends and family happy by giving them your money.
Yikes!
The experts cited Sudden Money Syndrome as a recurring problem for lottery winners or those who suddenly find themselves inheriting large piles of cash.
From reading these stories, I also concluded that a frontal lobotomy must be mandatory before you can collect your money…and I concluded I would like to give it a shot. I would be interested in being a part of any project that would study the effects of sudden wealth upon an individual. I am willing to be that proverbial guinea pig, giving selflessly to help others with SMS in hopes that someday there will be a cure.
I’d like the experiment to start with $50 million. I don’t care where it comes from—it could be from the Powerball coffers or perhaps collected from you readers. Perhaps someone would like to spearhead that for me…???
I already have a plan. My first step would be to buy an obscure house up somewhere in the north woods. The path leading to the house would only be wide enough to allow one vehicle. The access to that path will be obscured by brush.
My hideout will be equipped with satellite TV and ultra high-speed internet.
My freezer will be filled with ground beef.
My fridge? Diet Dew.
My morning will start about 8:30 with a light breakfast. I’ll head to the exercise room, and will watch “Ellen” from the treadmill, although I won’t turn it on until she is done dancing. I’ll then retire to my study, where I will read the morning’s newspapers before switching to the computer for a few online newspapers. About noon I’ll stop for a lunch of…well…ground beef.
In the afternoon I’d field a few calls from friends and family to tell them they can’t have any of my money.
A couple of days a week I’d let Kathy visit.
She, of course, would have half of my fortune, so I’m thinking her schedule might not allow for two visits every week.
The rest of the afternoon I’d count my money.
I’d wrap that up in time for an evening meal of ground beef.
After supper I would retire to the Movie Room for some popcorn and a DVD or two.
Once a week I’d call the enXco office to tell them “no thanks, I won’t be flying anywhere in the near future.”
After the initial investment, my day-to-day expenses would be fairly reasonable. I’ll have my satellite and internet fees, some electricity and a pound or two of ground beef a day. I’d even have enough money left to hire a guy to stand outside the house and make sure nobody gets in.
So, the next time the University of Phoenix does a study on the effects of SMS on an average American (which I am, no matter WHAT Sarah Palin says), I’m here. I will make that ultimate sacrifice. The amount doesn’t really matter. We can start with $1 million and work our way up.
When it happens, watch this blog. I’ll be taking applications for The Guy Who Stands Outside My House.
A year or two down the road, if things work out really well, I’ll probably also be looking for The Guy Who Fries My Ground Beef. Then, who knows, maybe the Guy Who Walks On My Treadmill For Me.
I’ll be the model for lottery winners everywhere.Pick up the phone and give me a call—quick…I may have already alienated my family…

There is no shot they can give you for baseball fever

Well, how could I NOT talk about sports this week? Going back one week (which seems like a month in recent Minnesota sports time) my Minnesota Twins were three games behind the Detroit Tigers in the mild American League Central Division with only four games to play. No team in history had ever come back to win the division from three games back with four to play…until this year. The Twins defeated the Tigers last Thursday to pull within one game. This was still a tall task—two games back with three to play. It was especially difficult considering the Twins wouldn’t be playing the Tigers over those last three games. Instead, they had to sweep an improving Kansas City Royals team…which they did…while hoping the Chicago White Sox could win two out of three in Detroit…which they did.

This, of course, set up a wild day at the Metrodome on Sunday, when officials had scheduled a gigantic farewell party for the dome, in what was supposed to be the last Twins game there…ever.

The season ended with the Twins and Tigers tied for first place, forcing the one-game, winner-take-all regular season playoff on Tuesday evening. I can guarantee that there is absolutely no way you non-baseball fans could have had a more exciting and jubilant Tuesday evening than did us Twins fans. Most of us know that the game went 12 innings, with the local nine ending up victorious.

Normally, that playoff game would have been held on Monday evening, but there was the small task of eradicating cheeseheads from our midst via a Vikings victory over the Packers.

Being bumped until Tuesday causes some problems for the Twins. The win meant they had 20 hours to get to New York for the first game of the ALDS against the hated Yankees, or as Tyler native Jeff Steen would call them, the “Bankees.” The team arrived in their New York hotel at about 4:00 AM. First pitch was 5:07 P.M.

Of course with five straight exciting Twins games, each one more important than the last, we baseball fans picked up a lot of bandwagon jumpers…people who really didn’t pay much attention throughout the other 158 games this season. That’s OK, we’ll still take you.

Of course it is easy to pick up on the baseball novices most of the time…usually shortly after they speak. My favorite was yesterday morning on WCCO radio. The reporter asked a young lady the following: “So, how are the Twins going to do against the Bronx Bombers?” The young lady replied with a clueless, “I thought we were playing the Yankees.”

Funny stuff.

I spent the summer at the Opera House bemoaning the omnipresence of those “Damn Yankees,” and here I find myself with a bonus Act 3 in the fall. I hate the way the “Bankees” can throw money at any weak spot that pops up in their lineup and prey upon the smaller market teams. It seems like cheating to me. The Twins have won five division titles in eight years by playing smart, scrappy and fundamentally sound baseball on a budget. It’s tough to take that next step, however, on their payroll.

That’s OK though, I’d rather pull for the little guy any day. We’ll be lucky if they win one game against the Bombers, but what a season they gave us.

I thank them for delaying for one more week the inevitable rite of fall…cheesehead baiting.

And that will have to help pass the time until pitchers and catchers report in February.

Oh yeah, I typed this while I reconciled my checkbook

For the time being at least, I have once again managed to fill my life up to the brim. Some of you, of course, may remember me occasionally whining about this problem back in my days as a weekly newspaper columnist. Okay, okay…it was more than occasionally…all right, fine, in reality, I actually used up most of the free time I had by engaging in an extended whine about how busy I was. As a result, I can almost hear droves of online readers “X”-ing out of this blog right now. (For those of us bloggers who like to pretend that lots of people are actually reading this twaddle, “droves” translates to roughly five people.)
The days of 16-to-21-hour Tuesdays, however, are lodged deep in my past. As a matter of fact, if I get through this week, my life will morph into something much more relaxed.
A combination of opening week of the fall Opera House show and a spate of photography and video side projects however, finds me searching for ways to squeeze 28 hours into 24.
I’ve tried sacrificing more sleep, but I can’t seem to get by on less than six, and even that has me occasionally waking to, say, 16 lines of “ffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffff…” at the office, when I briefly lose consciousness while working on the computer. We should all be very thankful I’m not a surgeon.
Since I can’t afford to lose any more sack time, I find myself multi-tasking for most of my waking hours. I check my email while I eat my breakfast. During lunch I try to read my newspaper. My evening meal is for placing photo orders or printing an invoice and maybe taking time to deal with emails I’ve ignored during the day.
While I drive I either catch up with the world’s current events on the radio or listen to an audio book.
I self-medicate while my toast is burning in the morning, and when I bend over to pull on my shoes I pet the cat.
I’ve even taught myself to breathe and gain weight at the same time.
And this week, just to save a little more time, I trimmed my column from the usual bloated 700-800 words, to under 400.
And look at this, in the process, I saved you some time too…

Not to be confused with “diva”ticulitis

In last week’s blog, I discussed some of the issues involved in directing six women in a play at the Lake Benton Opera House. I wrapped it up with my Top Ten Comments You Don’t Want To Hear From Your Cast. As it turns out, after the ladies read my blog last week, I was told in no short order that I had to offer equal time this week. When they say “jump,” I dutifully utter the question, “how high?” Of course, most of you won’t get these inside jokes, but if it makes my divas feel better, they can write my blog this week. That being said, here—directly from the cast of “Delval Divas,” (opening October 2 at the Opera House) are the Top Fifteen Comments You Don’t Want To Hear From Your Director…
15. Apparently the root canal you had today also removed your funny bone?
14. Neurotic does NOT mean Angry!
13. No one in the audience wants to see your butt!
12. You can "act" like you are drinking wine, but I don't advise that you actually drink alcohol onstage.
11. Do not look at the person you are speaking to, regardless of what you were taught about good communication skills.
10. Could you totally change everything you have been doing so far and "act" neurotic? By the way...we open in one week!
9. It's Diverticulitis NOT Diverticulosis...there IS a difference!
8. Could you please do a better job of enunciating “statistically significant occurrence in the rise of malignant melanoma"?
7. I'm thinking it would be funny to give the "large" girl the part that involves exercising on stage instead of eating. Maybe NOW she'll get the hint.
6. Don't just sit there, get up and walk around, do something like you would at home.
5. Wear whatever you want but you don't have to wear jammies just because it's late at night.
4. No more prompting lines from the script, if you forget your lines, get yourself out of it.
3. Right there! That is the spot you ALWAYS MISS".
2. Don't pay any attention to the good lookin' fella in the sound booth. He's not eye candy, he has FEELINGS. (Submitted by the guy in the sound booth.)
And the number one Comment You Don’t Want To Hear From Your Director…
1. Sorry, the budget doesn't allow for another box of Kleenex, just use your sleeve.
I should mention that there are some comments they don’t want to hear from the director that they have yet to even know about. Here, I add the Top Three Comments We Haven’t Heard, Yet Still May Hear From Our Director…
3. Wait until you see what I wrote about you in the programs.
2. Yeah…Becky and Beth…I’m thinking about you two switching parts.
1. Whatever you do, DON’T look in the sound booth. He’s naked again.
***
For those of you in the Tyler area, the promotions committee will be providing a free family fun night on Saturday night (Sept. 26) at the fairgrounds (weather permitting). Free admission, free popcorn and free pop. The movie will start shortly after 8:00 PM. “The Soloist” starring Robert Downy Jr. and Jamie Foxx will be showing. Bring your own chair or blanket and probably a coat.

Coming to a theater near you…

For the first time in many years, I’m looking forward to enjoying to the fullest my favorite season of the year. I’m beginning to become a bit impatient with the 80-degree temps that have followed us into mid-September, but I have plenty of time to wait.
Beginning back in 1997, each fall would coincide with the beginning of the school year, which meant lots of photo opportunities for the newspaper, but that also meant very few nights at home. During those years I was doing my best to cover boys and girls sports for different combinations of Lake Benton, Lincoln HI and RTR, so there was an opportunity to go to a game most nights. Mix that in with other school events as well as city council and school board meetings and it would seem I’d be home long enough to shower and sleep. It was fun while it lasted, but since I was run out of the newspaper business I’ve finally been looking forward to a fall and winter that affords me a bit more time to lollygag.
I still fill up my evenings about four months each year with Opera House obligations, but would be lost if I were ever forced to give that up. This fall I get a bonus in that I get to spend those evenings with my wife Kathy, who is part of the cast of “Delval Divas.”
The cast consists of six “divas,” and I get to spend about six weeks pretending to boss them around. Of course they allow me to feel like I’m in charge for the most part, but I really have no recourse if they decide not to take my direction. It’s not all that different from being married. I get to make the decisions they allow me to make.
Kathy Wilmes of Tyler plays the part of Stella Wild, a former Wall Street wizard; Teresa Schreurs of Tyler returns as Rosemary Adams, who single-handedly brought down several financial institutions; Becky Clipper of Tyler is back on our stage as Linda Robertson, who skimmed money from HMOs; Opera House veteran Sara Vogt of Tyler plays the part of Beth Ziegler, serving time for technology crimes; Beth Reams of Brookings, SD joins us as Sharon Watson, accused of murder; and Kim Wylie of Brookings, SD plays the prison guard, Lucille. Beth and Kim are appearing for the first time on our stage.
I always enjoy summer musicals probably in part because of the feeling of satisfaction when I complete something of such enormous proportions with my sanity intact. That is somewhat tempered by the fact that it is hard to say if any of us really know the state of our own sanity. That is probably better judged by those around me.
The fall play, however, is different in many ways. The most notable is a small cast lends itself to a camaraderie that you don’t get with a cast of 40. More often than not cast members remain friends for many years. Of course there is also less stress with no music or choreography to direct.
This play is relatively new compared to most we’ve done in the past. Four women are sent “up the river” for a variety of white collar crimes. The women are all chronically rich and by lining the warden’s pockets, as well as the prison guard, they end up living a very cushy existence at the Delaware Valley Correctional facility. Manicures, pedicures, massages, catered food, and satellite TV are some of the many perks these convicts have procured. Life is good until they learn that one of the four is being released and will be replaced by a woman accused of murder one. Come see the play. It is a hoot. Opening night is October 2 with shows on October 3, 4, 9, 10 and 11.
Until then, I’ll be enjoying the act of pretending I’m bossing around six women. That is, if they continue to allow me to pretend…
Top Ten Comments You Don’t Want To Hear From Your Cast…
10. “When do we get our first paychecks?”
9. “How about THIS Mr. Big Shot Director…I’ll look over my lines on page 23 when we get home tonight. As a matter of fact I can take care of that while you are out in the garage setting up your cot.”
8. “I’ll just come out and say it. My doctor says I have H1N1.”
7. “What? You want more emotion? Come here you Bob Fosse wannabe, we’ll give you more emotion.”
6. “Hey there Tubby, why is the candy dish always empty?”
5. “Yeah, we’ve been talking and we’ve decided we’re going to be using real alcohol on stage.”
4. “Whatever! Diverticulitis, Diverticulosis, what’s the difference?”
3. “Oh, by the way Mark, we voted on it and we’ve decided to let you go.”
2. “I hate my picture…you’ll just have to redo the posters, newsletters and advertising.”
And the Number One Comment You Don’t Want To Hear From Your Cast:1. “I’m sure I told you at tryouts that I wouldn’t be able to make opening night…”

The Miracle on #8

Okay, okay, okay, I get it…I promise to never again end a column with me in the hospital and no further explanation. I had several calls and emails asking for more info, in addition to a stern reprimand from Mom. I assure you all that if I had actually died, I would have included that in the column. Fortunately, however, I lived—I just didn’t want to give away the ending.
For those of you who used to read my newspaper column late in 2007 and early 2008, you received blow-by-blow descriptions of the surgical procedures and ensuing recovery. When we last left our soon-to-be-deposed editor’s health issues, he had received a skin graft that was about 90% successful. To this day, however, I’m still dealing with that final 10%.
Over the weekend, that final 10% was ground zero for an infection that was gradually turning my skin red and highly sensitive radiating up from the “issue” I still have on my abdomen. It continued to grow until I called the clinic on Monday and made an appointment for Tuesday afternoon to have it checked out by Dr. Snow.
Of course, as you learned last week, I had that little issue of participating in my first ever round of golf on Tuesday morning.
The weather was about perfect for me on Tuesday, with temps in the low 60s, as I whiffed my first three tee-off attempts from the ladies line on #1 at the Slayton Golf Course. What I would soon learn is that the other three in my group were nearly is bad as me, making the afternoon somewhat less painful.
We only kept track of the first nine strokes on each hole. I would finish the day several hours later having recorded “9” on seven of the nine holes we played.
We spent the next few hours defoliating trees, de-sodding fairways, filling creeks with balls and burying balls in sand traps. Somehow I began with a Top Flite ball on #1 and ended up with a Titleist on #9. We think it might have happened during the first water hazard incident. We sent a SWAT team (Lyrae) down the precipice to retrieve the ball lying in the mud that we thought was mine, when in reality mine may have been one of the 12 that were being slowly sucked downstream in the undertow.
With our motley group of hackers, it was always wise to keep your head up and ready to dive. You just really never knew which direction some of those loose cannons were headed.
Carts needed to be kept in the background also. Fortunately I had already de-boarded my cart the time it took that one attack from an incoming dimpled sphere.
As I mentioned, I had shot a “9” on seven of the holes. One of the holes I scored an 8, and through some sort of weird sports miracle, I shot par on the par 3 #8 hole.
After whacking my way through the first seven holes 20 feet at a time, I shot par on #8! Thinking that golf was finally starting to click with me, I swaggered up to the ladies teeing ground on #9, placed my ball on the tee, wiggled my backside for a second, addressed the ball (not sure exactly what that means), took a big backswing and with a mighty grunting swing…the ball traveled about three feet sideways. Somewhere around 10 or 11 strokes later, I put my ball in the cup.
The four+ hours we spent on the course were probably equal parts fun and frustration. Of course for those of us who bear the curse of unnatural plumpness, the game offers a few special challenges. The most glaring would be the fear that the cart is going to tip over on your side…before you even begin moving.
Then there is that apprehension that one of these times, you might not be able to pull yourself out of the sand trap and up that steep incline onto the green.
Oh, and then there is the reality that it takes a major expenditure of gumption just to try to touch your toes in front of your golf mates, and when you finally sink that putt, the ball ends up five inches BELOW your toes. I circumvented the problem with a combination of strategic positioning of my feet and proper crutch (putter) placement followed by a grand plié and half pirouette. I’m hoping there’s no video.
Turns out no humans or animals were injured during the debacle and I would guess I’ll be doing it again a year from now.
As I mentioned, my day also included a trip to the clinic. The infection that I first noticed two days before had brewed into quite a spectacle. Dr. Snow was concerned enough that he threw everything at it but the kitchen sink, with a threat that if it hadn’t improved by Wednesday, I would be spending the night at the THC Hilton. I ended up avoiding that scenario, and after a couple hours of stuff dripping into my veins and 10 days of horse pills I’m happy to say I’m slowly improving.
I always have some reservations when Dr. Snow starts putting stuff into my body. I have this irrational fear that he may have one of the nurses slip me a bag of his Republican serum and I’ll wake up to find myself making ludicrous accusations and speaking of pulling the plug on grandma. It didn’t help that I overheard him telling Kathy that if she notices over the course of the next week that I’m starting to lean a little bit to the right, that she should just ignore it. In my fitful dreams later that night, this comment was also accompanied by evil laughter and scary organ music…
I will be making a return visit to the clinic on Friday and hopefully the antibiotics will have done the trick. I’d hate to give the good doctor a chance to inflict another round of that mysterious cocktail he was pumping into my veins on Tuesday.
Years from now, I probably won’t remember much about the day.
For sure, however, the memories of The Miracle On #8 will never fade.

Having a ball, thanks

I’ve had an eventful few days since we last talked. I’m not sure why I have more than my share of those, but it keeps life interesting and gives you poor entertainment-starved folks something to read about. It also affords you the opportunity to comparatively feel better about how your own life is shuffling along.
My latest round of hard-to-believe weirdness began on Saturday. I sang at a wedding in the afternoon (congratulations Cathy and Adam Feste). The only thing weird there was singing a Bon Jovi song in Danebod Lutheran Church. A Bon Jovi song just can’t be sung in, say, a Michael Buble voice. It has to be sung in a rock and roll voice. Have you ever been in a very noisy room and you are talking really loud to the next person and everything suddenly falls silent except you, who continues to scream for a few seconds? It kinda feels like that. Only this one lasted for four minutes and 12 seconds.
This isn’t quite so traumatic if you can actually sing like Bon Jovi. I can’t.
I got through it, however, and everyone who accidentally made eye contact with me told me I did a nice job.
On Saturday evening we followed the wedding procession to the Hadley Community Center. Kathy and I were in charge of getting the Cathy and Adam video set up and projected on the wall for the guests to see after dinner was served. It came off with nary a hitch and then the event shifted to the dance portion. At this point Kathy and I were in charge of staying awake until the end of the night to transport a couple of the slightly chemically altered participants back to Tyler. Suddenly, about an hour into the dance I got extremely tired…I mean more than my usual perpetual grogginess…and started shivering uncontrollably. We would have to go back 25-30 years for me to think of the last time I was shivering uncontrollably, and that involved a stalled car and 20-below wind chill. With the dance ending at midnight, I figured I could just suck it up and get through. By midnight I was begging and pleading for the night to end, when the D.J. excitedly announced he had been “persuaded” to PLAY ANOTHER HALF HOUR!!!
With the help of a short stint in the car snoozing with the heater blasting, I got through the night. I might take a second to note here that I had been home doing nothing for most of the previous 50 or so Saturdays and I felt fine. Just dumb luck, I guess.
I finally found myself in bed sometime after 2:00 AM. I never would have guessed how difficult it would ultimately be to drag myself back out. I slept nearly non-stop until 6:00 AM on Monday. I did take about a four-hour break where I sat up and dozed Sunday evening. Along with the chills and sleepiness, I was experiencing dizziness, headaches, nausea and growing evidence of a sinus infection. The same symptoms I get when I hear Sarah Palin speak. Monday morning I still had a tough time dragging myself out of bed to get ready to work.
And actually, it was more than just work. Tacked on to the end of the day was a company Summer Fun event. I was going bowling…for the first time in 25 years, and the last time was a disaster.
Each year the company I work for, enXco, gives the employees a day in the summer to go out and enjoy some fun with their co-workers and just generally give you a chance to get away from the usual grind. The group I work with was given a choice of bowling or golf. I, being one of the office rats, was afforded the luxury of attending both the Monday night bowling outing, and the Tuesday morning golf outing. Um…OK…I was told there was no choice, I HAD to go. Hazing, maybe.
Three times since I started at enXco back in March I have been told I would participate in some sort of activity that I at one time would have told you I would never do over the course of my life. Flying was first, then came bowling and golfing. Bungee jumping comes up and I swear, I’m out of there. A man should have to endure only so much happiness in his life…and mine is already filled with marriage.
So I drug myself to work and for another eight hours fought whatever sleeping bug I caught over the weekend. By 4:30 when we were heading to the bowling alley, I was actually starting to feel somewhat human, and figured I might actually live through the experience.
We started the evening with the most amazing baked potato bar that my palette had ever experienced. Imagine a big steamy potato topped with burger and onions and melted cheese and ham and sour cream and shredded cheddar and did I mention burger? It was delicious. The problem was that I hadn’t eaten hardly anything since early Saturday evening, and I didn’t dare unleash the barrage that I craved on my sickness-ravaged insides. But what I had was delectable.
Unfortunately, it seems like every time a guy ends up at a bowling outing, the activities eventually end up being all about bowling.
There were 10 of us bowling and we bowled three…er…rounds(?) over the course of the evening. The first round was “regular” bowling. I found that I have some genetic predisposition to release the ball with enough spin that no matter where the ball starts in the lane, it ends up in the left hand gutter. I’m sure there are those of you who would mutter that I’ve always kind of gravitated to the left. In bowling, however, that can be detrimental. Try as I might, I never shaved more than two or three pins off the left side of the…er…“triangle o’ pins”(?) I bowled in the low 50s.
My gloom and frustration, though, dissipated in “round” two. We moved from regular bowling to sort of variety bowling. Each frame we rotated from regular hand to opposite hand to granny style forwards to granny style backwards. Suddenly the pins were exploding off my ball. Somehow I managed to pull off the third highest score. I was just happy I got through the whole backwards granny thing with out getting my ball wedged between my thighs.
I should have polished my nails on my chest and strolled out the front door at that point. Round three was back to regular bowling. I was back to a 56.
The night ended with some very nice gifts from the company and all-in-all, a pleasant surprise…even without my 8” ViewSonic Digital Photo Frame with SwifTouch Touch-Frame Technology and my 12” Pilsner Minnesota Twins Freezer Glass.
Monday night, I knew, was the easy hurdle. The next day the bar would be lifted. I had NEVER played a round(?) of golf. I had never even stood on a green.
Next week: At 9:30 AM I was standing on the first…er…“tee-off place” at the Slayton Golf Course. At 5:30 I was lying in the Tyler hospital with an I.V. draining into my arm.

FORE!!!!!

Just a few random thoughts this week…
I’ll start with my job again. For those of you who have been reading this twaddle over the past few weeks, you know that my new place of employment, more specifically my boss, Lyrae, forced me to fly in one of those death machines to Houston and back. Recently she threw me another curve. I have been commanded to bowl on Monday evening. I’ve only bowled twice before in my life. Neither time was very pretty. The mandatory sentence was part of a summer party, compliments of enXco, the company for which I work. “You WILL be there,” I was told.
Since we monitor wind turbines 24 hours a day, seven days a week, the employees have to experience their summer bash in two shifts. Those who aren’t going to be bowling on Monday evening will be golfing on Tuesday.
“Things could be worse,” I thought, “I could be golfing.”
Yeah, you guessed it, I was also told I will be golfing on Tuesday.
I have never golfed.
Why do I get the feeling that next week’s column will pretty much write itself?

I have been so troubled over the past few weeks about the unsettling downward spiral which is the debate on health care reform. People are making complete asses of themselves at many of the “town hall” meetings, spouting some of the stuff that they have heard from those who want reform to fail. Michelle Bachmann, the Minnesota Loon, begging people to “get down on their knees and pray for health care reform to fail.” Again, she invoked the “death panels” scare tactic. She doesn’t seem to let truth get in the way. It was Michelle who ironically was pointing fingers at people who are “un-American” last fall!
And then there are those who feel it necessary to bring assault weapons to Obama events just to exercise their freedom of speech. Wouldn’t a sign saying “I’m an idiot” convey the same message?
I just want to say this: If you are getting your news from MSNBC, or FOX NEWS or The Heritage Foundation then you are NOT getting the news. You are getting lots of hyperbole from people who get paid a lot of money to stir up controversy. Get your news from network news, from USA Today, the Washington Post, The New York Times, The Los Angeles Times, the Minneapolis Star Tribune, The Wall Street Journal. You can read them all online. One video I saw this week of a town hall meeting had an angry man proudly announcing that he gets all his news from FOX News, because the rest of them networks have too much spin.
The prosecution rests.

Tryouts were held on Monday evening at the Lake Benton Opera House for the fall play, “Delval Divas.” We had an astounding total of 11 ladies come down to try out for six parts! All were fully capable of taking a starring role in this production. It will be a painful task for this pudgy director, trying to pick six, leaving five without parts in the play. The show will open on October 2nd and run for two weekends. Come see it if you can. You will get to witness some great acting.
Oh, and if you think this will be the last you will hear of it here on my blog, then you haven’t read much of my stuff over the past few years.

I’m have online accounts with several of the “biggies.” I’m on facebook, and Twitter, and Myspace, and flickr, and Skype, as well here on blogger.com. They all have their pros and cons with the possible exception of Twitter. What Twitter has basically done is take the most potentially annoying aspect of facebook, the news feed, and stripped everything else away. It is most likely my problem. I should probably care more about when people are making dinner, washing clothes and watching reruns of Project Runway.
I have to say, however, facebook has its redeeming values. You can ignore the most annoying of your friends by blocking them from your news feed, but enjoy the people who make me laugh or share their photography or just “friend” me to say hi. In recent weeks I have reconnected with many musician friends from long ago…some who I haven’t seen in 20-25 years. I’ve hooked up with classmates and teachers and even a few people who I may not know, but they knew me for years as the newspaper guy, and they wanted to say hello.
I enjoy the online connection with names from my past—people who I may have never heard from again if it weren’t for this remarkable cyber community. It has been fun. My sister can take a picture of her amazing flower garden up in Cloquet, and five minutes later I can see it online. I can post videos and pictures of past Opera House shows and share them with actors who have participated, or even advertise upcoming productions. Every week I see more and more of us geezers appearing on facebook. It is always fun to make a small wager as to how long it will take for a newbie to actually get their face on facebook. If you haven’t posted a profile picture, you see a weird silhouette with a goofy cowlick on the top.
It has been a blessing for many who live hundreds of miles from their families and friends. With a webcam, you can record a live message from your children in Washington that your grandma in Florida can see seconds later.
I’m guessing we’re cramping the millions of teens who used to rule the site, but do we really care?
If you are somewhat computer-literate and have a little or a lot of spare time (up to you how much time you spend), give it a shot. My suggestion? Upload a profile picture immediately, before people start laughing at you…

Sorry Darla, sports column this week…

Truly, I suppose there is really nothing else the subject matter could possibly be this week, right? It is all anyone is talking about since Tuesday morning. So, at the risk of my sister Darla not reading my column this week, I must talk sports.
It seems all eyes are on the state of Minnesota this week with the Vikings signing of the Grand Cheesehead…the grizzled future Hall-of-Famer…the man Vikings fans loved to hate…Brett Favre. Or as my wife Kathy calls him…He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. My daughter, Lindsay, thinks that when she heard the news, she may have “thrown up a little” in her mouth. Ewwww.
Even my sports-hating sister Darla surely must have heard the news way up there in Cloquet. As WCCO reporter Jason DeRusha posted yesterday on facebook, the state of Minnesota is in the grips of a Favregasm.
Love him or hate him, he has brought nearly unheard-of attention to the Minnesota Vikings this week.
I will watch the Vikings this year as I have in years past. I will have to swallow hard, but eventually the surreal vision of seeing #4 in a purple jersey will eventually wear off. Right? A life-long Vikings fan, it will be difficult to see a man I have loathed so much in recent years manning the position previously filled by people like Fran Tarkenton, Joe Kapp and Tommy Kramer.
If there is a bright side, it is the fact that many Wisconsinites are whining from the depths of their whiny little whiner holes about the fact that Favre has slapped them in the face. Fun.
In Favre’s favor, he has been handed the keys to a sleek and sassy offense with lots of firepower. All he has to do is not screw up, and the Vikings could find themselves deep in the playoffs.
There is always the chance, though, that the first time he tries to lead Bernard Berrian on a 60-yard fly pattern that his 39-year-old right arm will come off right there on the 20 yard line.
Then, of course, there will be those awkward 5-6 weeks where he won’t be able to decide whether he retires or has it re-attached so he can be back in time for the playoffs.
Or there is always a concern that Tavaris Jackson or Sage Rosenfels may slip something toxic in his Metamucil. They seem to have each taken a giant step backwards on the depth charts.
Who knows, at his age if the Democrats get health care reform pushed through, he may have to stand before a Death Panel…
Who knows how this will all turn out when the dust has settled from the Favre Circus arriving at Winter Park. I’ll temper my excitement as I do every year. I can’t let my hopes get so high that they freefall and crash once again.
I CAN report however that a sports figure DID get me excited in recent days. It was my great pleasure, at around 4:00 PM on August 12, 2009, to stand for a few short minutes talking with former Minnesota Twins superstar Tony Oliva at…get this…the Ruthton Mini-Mart.
Mr. Oliva walked in the front door as I was about to depart. My jaw dropped as I recognized the gentleman immediately, and for a few moments I was once again 10 years old, staring at one of my life’s idols. Tony O., one of the greatest hitting outfielders a pre-teen could ever imagine.
As he walked in the door, he flashed that extra-large grin and pointed at the Twins shirt I was wearing.
“Twins fan,” he said.
I reached out my hand and shook his hand. “What the heck are you doing in Ruthton, Minnesota,” I asked. He laughed, and somehow through his thick Cuban accent I learned he was returning from Huron, South Dakota, after visiting his wife’s family.
“If I had a camera right now,” I told him, “you and I would be posing for a picture.”
He shared his easy laugh once again.
This time he reached to shake MY hand.
“What is your name?” he asked.
“I’m Mark,” I replied.
“OK, now what’s MY name?” he asked with a grin, testing me.
“Tony O.” I replied with a bit of a “duh” inflection to my voice. “I lived and breathed you guys when I was a kid.”
Another smile from old #6 and I conveyed to him what a pleasure it was to meet him. As I was backing out the front door, I reverted once again to the 10-year-old in me…
“Tony Oliva!” I shouted to everyone else in the building. “In Ruthton, Minnesota!!!”
Tony threw back his head for one last chuckle and then I was out of the building.
I’m not sure what happened after I left. I’m not sure anybody else had ever heard of Tony Oliva. I might have caused him and his wife a bit of a delay before they escaped, but all I know is that I got to meet a man who I looked up to a great deal in my youth. I met Tony O.
As soon as I pulled out of the parking lot I called Kathy to tell her of my good fortune. I fought the nearly insurmountable urge to turn around and go back when she reminded me that I actually have a camera on my cell phone. I’m not sure if she used the word “bonehead” or “dork” to describe me. I was busy talking myself down from a U-turn.
I was so upset back in 1976 when his knees betrayed him. He could still hit like nobody’s business, but he could no longer run. I felt bad for him.
Thirty-three years later I find out that I needn’t have worried. Tony is doing just fine. A man who can laugh that easily has just GOT to be doing fine…

*****

To those of you in the RTR School District, I've been asked to point you to the top left of my page for a link to the RTR Elementary School PTSA facebook page. Click on the link to get the latest...

Part 5: And then the clouds parted...

So there I was, standing in the pouring rain in the parking lot of the Holiday Inn Express in Houston, and I couldn't find the keys I had just removed from the ignition of my rented Toyota Highlander. I was just moments away from an emotional tantrum, the likes of which the state of Texas had never seen. Logic told me since I had yet to venture more than two feet away from the vehicle, the keys couldn’t be far away. I methodically checked the floors, the cracks, the crevices, the puddles, my pockets, my shoes...and came up empty. The only thing left, no matter how crazy, was to unpack my bags. I unpacked my laptop case, searching each pocket, followed by my suitcase, my toiletry bag, and finally my duffel bag. There somehow nestled in the bottom of the duffel, was a tagged set of keys from Enterprise. Near as I can figure, I laid the keys on top of the bag and they fell inside through the three or so inches that was unzipped. I could finally see an end to my tortured trip.
I re-packed and settled into my room shortly before 2:00 AM. A much needed shower and a quick email to my family that they would no longer need to keep the NTSB on standby, and I was hitting the sack about four and a half hours before I needed to get up and head to my first day's classes.
After what seemed like about nine minutes, my alarm rang, and I rolled out to face three days of classes. I flipped on “Good Morning Houston,” and was alarmed to see the video from while I was sleeping. It didn't quit raining until there was about 10 inches, causing flash flooding all around my secret hotel, and as it turned out, two blocks from where I was sleeping, a woman's car was washed from the road and into a culvert. She didn't survive. I quickly dressed and went to the front desk (passing several buckets placed to catch the water dripping from the ceiling) where I learned that “most” of the roads were no longer under water, and I should be able to get to the training center without a boat. I did end up driving slowly through one pond, but made it to classes on time.
I was somewhat buoyed (pardon the pun) by the fact that my instructor had a similar story about his trip to Houston from Philadelphia. It was nice to know that someone besides me was going to have a tough time staying awake.
The classes were informative, but I ended up being one former editor in a room of 13 engineers, including the instructor. They were the ultimate in geek chic. Most of the week I felt like a duck out of water (OK...ummm...I'll quit with the water references). They spoke a completely different language. Between lessons, a typical joke would carry a punchline like, “no...I said the ALGORITHM method!” This would be followed by gleeful knee-slapping laughter and hoots of unfettered mirth. I always chuckled along as if I actually got the joke.
My day of classes were usually done by 3:30 or 4:00, and I was free to do whatever I desired. The first evening, I ventured next door to Beck's Prime, and got a burger and fries to go. I headed back to the room, ate and caught up on emails while watching TV until I was tired enough to sleep, which didn't take too long.
For those of you who spend any time around me, you know that I am a Diet Mountain Dew freak. The longer I stayed in Houston, the more I found that apparently nobody down there drinks the stuff. During my first two days, I found only one convenience store that carried Diet Dew, and I forgot where I found it the next time I needed a fix. Most of my stay, I had to compromise my standards and drink Diet Coke.
After my final day of classes, I was determined to find someplace that sold the stuff. My flight home didn't take off until Friday, and I wasn't spending another night without the golden elixir. I spent about two hours stopping at a variety of convenience stores, grocery stores, and even a Walgreen's Drug Store, and still came up empty. Finally, as I was about to give up, I spotted an oasis in the muggy heat of Houston. A small bastion of sanity from of the Upper Midwest...nay, a miracle of wondrous proportions. I spotted a real life freakin' Target store. Surely THEY would be stocked with my favorite potable.
Turns out they had been mostly Houston-ized also. I found none in the pop section, but discovered three lonely bottles in the deli. I snatched them up immediately.
Most of the rest of my free time in Houston, I sheepishly admit, was spent looking for burger joints at which I had never dined. The first night's Whataburger was delicious, followed by a scrumptious Beck's Prime Burger and amazing fries on Tuesday. Wednesday took me to Jack-in-the-Box for lunch (I passed on the chicken wraps served on site) and Sonic for my evening meal. Both get a yummy “two greasy thumbs up...”
On Thursday, unable to uncover another new fast food burger, I opted for Steve's Deli, where I was impressed by the most amazing spaghetti and meatballs supper I had ever experienced.
Yeah, I know what you are all thinking about now...“maybe if Mark spent a little more time looking for hiking trails instead of burger joints, he might be able to squeeze into one seat on the way back.
Did I mention I took pictures?
On Friday I was up early to pack, check out, and drive back across town to good old “George H.W.” to start my journey back to the Heartland.
I rode in a giant Airbus from Houston to Denver, with nary a bump along the way. I had to make quite a journey to my next flight in Denver, but their airport has giant “people movers”...large conveyors that probably quadrupled my normal walking speed, and I was at the next gate with enough time to grab myself a couple of 20 oz Diet Dews for the flight to Sioux Falls.
Again, an uneventful flight made me almost forget I was hurtling through the air, and I even enjoyed a few games of Scrabble on my Palm device.
I landed in Sioux Falls on May 1, 2009, about the same time that Kathy was walking into the terminal, and all was right with the world.
Now, three months later, I can oddly say that I look back on the trip as a mostly pleasant experience. I survived what turned out to be five take-offs and landings...Sioux Falls to Chicago to New Orleans to Houston to Denver to Sioux Falls. Will I fly again? I suspect I probably will. Do I crave another flight? Certainly not, but there are places that could probably lure me if the time and price was right.
Next time, however, I'm bringing my own snacks...and probably a GPS.

Part 4: Murphy’s Law rears its ugly head

By the time I was leaving the Enterprise Rent-A-Car parking lot in my shiny black Toyota Highlander, the rains had returned to George H.W. Bush International Airport and the city of Houston. It was pouring. I set out for my hotel room in this city of 2.2 million in the middle of the night, during a downpour, with no GPS, in a foreign vehicle that had everything in the wrong place. It took me five minutes just to find the windshield wiper switch. Exacerbating the situation was the fact that the Mapquest printout that I brought along from home was now wet, with ink running down the page in all the wrong places. Speeding down the Sam Houston Tollway with a thousand other freaks who had no reason to be out driving at this time of night, my first thought was that I had survived the flight from hell, only to be killed on a freeway in Houston. Frustrated with all the events of the previous 12 hours, things continued to get worse. It seemed to take forever to get to the Katy Freeway, where I would eventually find my hotel room. The aptly-named Sam Houston Tollway proved to be an annoyance in itself, as I stopped about every 400 feet to pay another $1.50 toll.
Finally, through the downpour I could see the exit for the Katy Freeway and I assumed I was home free. I turned on the frontage road, and if my blurry, ink-streaked map was correct, I would be pulling up to the Holiday Express almost immediately. I was mistaken. I drove far past where I thought the hotel should be before crossing under the freeway and heading back towards the toll road. I still saw no Holiday Express. I made this loop at least four times and still nothing. At 12:15 a.m. I called Kathy back in Tyler and had her fire up the computer. Parked in front of a large car dealer, I had her “Google” the name and give me the address to reassure myself that I was in the general vicinity. After a few minutes of feeding me street names I didn’t recognize, I let her go back to bed and I continued my futile search. According, once again, to my cell phone call log, I phoned the toll-free number for Holiday Express at 12:55 a.m. A lady with a very thick Asian accent tried to direct me to my hotel. As I’ve mentioned before, I don’t do accents very well. I did gather from our conversation that I was on the right road, and I think she said something about the hotel being hidden behind a restaurant. I resisted the urge to get into a debate with her over whether or not this was a good marketing decision. Another two times around the loop and I was getting close to being out of patience. I pulled into a place called “Whataburger,” and failed in my attempt to enter when I found the doors locked. “Drive-through only after 11:00 p.m.” the sign said.
So drive through I did.
I ordered the “Double Meat Whataburger” and an order of fries. When I pulled up to the window, I relayed to the gentleman my sad story and indicated my inability to find the Holiday Express. A big smile crossed his face, and with a very thick Spanish accent, he pointed and nodded his head and proceeded to give me another set of instructions that I could not understand. I paid my bill, grabbed my bag of fast food, and continued my ill-fated search…albeit on my first full stomach since Sioux Falls.
It was shortly after 1:30 a.m. when I pulled into the parking lot of the Marriott Hotel. The front door was locked. I rang the service bell and a very nice lady came out to greet me. I apologized for disturbing her and again asked for directions to the competition. In full-blown English she graciously directed me to my destination, behind the Cattleman’s Restaurant. “It is hard to see the sign from the road,” she admitted. I robustly thanked her and promised that next time I would stay at the Marriott. With a hardy laugh, she sent me on my way.
I turned at the Cattleman’s Restaurant, and sure enough, there was the Holiday Express, tucked in behind the back parking lot.
I was so excited I nearly cried. I checked in at the front desk (again thinking I should keep my marketing suggestions to myself) and pulled around to the side parking lot.
Barely noticing I was getting drenched, I merrily gathered all my bags and was prepared to slide into my room…when I couldn’t find the keys I had just taken from my fancy Highlander’s ignition. Three quick searches from the steering wheel to the back storage area, including the puddles beneath the SUV, turned up nothing. I wasn’t going to leave it unlocked and unattended in the nation’s fourth largest city. Fourteen and a half hours after I lifted off the runway in Sioux Falls, I was standing in a motel parking lot in Houston in the pouring rain wondering what to do next.
Next week: Part 5—What next? Boils and the locusts?

Part 3: The last shortcut I take…ever

We landed in New Orleans almost exactly six hours after my first flight took off from Sioux Falls on April 27th. It wasn’t until after we boarded the plane that I figured out the rules on bringing food and drink on board. Apparently once you pass through security you can buy whatever you want and bring it with you.
Not that I would have had time to stop and purchase anything in Chicago anyway, mind you…
As it was, I was subsisting on the approximate 3.8 oz. of Diet Coke they poured in my ice-filled plastic cup sometime before we left Illinois airspace. In retrospect, that was probably a good thing. It most likely kept me from adding “got stuck in the bathroom” to my list of issues during the flight.
Although I can truthfully say I’ve now been to New Orleans, they actually didn’t let us leave the plane. I felt worst for the poor mother with her two young children a couple of rows in front of me. Six hours confined to their seats and we still weren’t at our destination.
Much to my surprise, our captain actually came back and stopped at each seat to answer any questions from the passengers. We were there for about 15 minutes when the fuel truck came and parked outside my window, lifting my spirits with the realization that they remembered to refuel. My self-appointed duty was to watch to make sure he screwed the cap back on.
Our pilot informed us that several planes had been diverted to other cities and we would have to wait our turn once the storm moved on from Houston before we would be cleared to take off.
Finally, my ears perked up when one of the flight attendants came on the P.A. system to tell us they would be coming around with snacks and refreshments. The euphoria wore off quickly when I received my bag of “Premiere Snacks” and another 3.8 oz. of Diet Coke. I pulled open my foil bag to find nine pretzel sticks, three sesame seeds and an almond. I think pretty much everybody knows it takes more than 3.8 oz. of Diet Coke to choke down nine pretzel sticks. I ate four and saved the rest for later…in case I decided to party a bit once I got to my hotel.
At 8:15 p.m., I called Kathy to tell her we were finally about to take off for Houston. Naïve flyer that I am, I assumed that since it took 28 minutes to get from the airspace over Houston to New Orleans, it would take around 28 minutes to get back.
Wrong.
As we were ascending once again to some ridiculous altitude, my old buddy the captain came over the P.A.
“We expect to land in Houston in about an hour and a half,” he announced. “We are taking the long way around, in order to miss the bank of storms headed toward us. We will fly up over northern Texas and come in behind the storms.”
Fair enough, I thought. Better safe than sorry.
I just was starting to become de-sensitized to all the little movements and sounds that come with air travel when the Lord sent us another delicious twist.
The captain came on again.
“This is your captain speaking,” he started. “We think we have found a shortcut through the storms and should be able to cut some time off our flight. We’ll keep you updated.”
It was about five minutes later when I got the impression that the “shortcut” closed up on us.
What ensued was a very long period of pitching, rumbling, bouncing, shuddering and non-stop lightning…BELOW ME! Our normally chatty captain may have suddenly become oddly silent…but I feel like I know what he was thinking…and if he had any sense it would somehow have involved what was going on in his boxers.
And me…I was going to be the proud owner of the most finely toned sphincter in the 48 contiguous states. (OK, I had just enough people complain about me referring to my sphincter last week that I just couldn’t resist…)
The scenes that played out before me in real time were precisely what I had witnessed in every single airplane disaster movie I’d ever seen. Most of which did NOT have a happy ending.
It seemed like it was about three hours, but it was probably closer to 20 minutes of picturing me as shark chum, and the turbulence disappeared. For the rest of the flight, it was smooth sailing. Nothing could be heard but the gentle purr of the engines. The electrified skies beneath us cleared and soon I was looking down at the vast expanse of street lights radiating from Houston, Texas…pride of the Lone Star state.
By the time I found my luggage, picked up my rental car and pulled out of the parking lot, it was 10:48 p.m. on April 27th. It would be well into April 28th before I would slip a key card into my hotel room door.
Next week, Part 4: So this is how Noah felt….

Part 2: Houston, we have a problem..

My flight to Chicago could be called unnerving, at best. I had never realized how bumpy “floating on air” could be. Sudden shifts to the left and right and up and down kept me in an ultra-high sense of awareness. Each noise, soft and loud, had me inexplicably wondering which electronic and/or mechanical device had failed. I talked myself down by observing the passengers around me. They calmly chatted…they laughed and joked…they DOZED!!! It was all I could do NOT to scream at the top of my lungs, “HOW CAN YOU PEOPLE BE SO CALM WHEN I’M ABOUT TO DIE???!!!” OK, so I didn’t really do that good of a job of “talking myself down.” I did, however, accept the fact that certainly somebody would be panicking if there was a problem. I just found it hard to believe that all that noisy jostling on a flight was normal.
As we were closing in on Chicago, the flight attendant stopped at each seat to give those of us who had connecting flights some advice on how to get to the next plane. Unfortunately, the terminal to which I needed to waddle was a long walk AND a bus shuttle from where I would land.
As we made our descent, the loudest of all the unusual noises sat me up in my seat. It took me a few startled moments to figure out that what sounded like a fuel tank exploding was actually the landing gear (a few short feet directly below my butt) locking into place. I remember thinking that this sound should have actually been a pleasant experience for me. Landing gear locking into place is a GOOD thing.
When I finally felt the tires reconnect me with good old terra firma, the first thing I noticed were my muscles relaxing. I realized that those muscles had apparently been in a constant state of tenseness for the previous two hours.
I could only imagine how sore my sphincter would actually be the next day.
A few minutes after landing I found my mass of sweaty plumpness scurrying rapidly across the airport in an attempt to make my connecting flight. I arrived at the gate about eight minutes before takeoff, and I heard my name being badly mispronounced over the PA system. Hoping I was maybe getting a reprieve from the rest of my flight by former Illinois Governor Rod Blagojevich, I approached the desk. A snippy young man said, “I would guess that they are waiting for you to board the plane.” He didn’t actually utter the word, “duh,” but it was most definitely implied.
Once again, as I boarded, I dutifully asked for my seat belt extender and once again a skinny person was saved by the flight attendant as I was re-located. I was just settling into my seat-and-a-half when a voice came over the loudspeakers.
“Unfortunately, before we can take off, we are going to have to do some redistribution of weight on the plane. We will need a few volunteers to move to another seat.” I fully expected to have the flight attendant point at me and say, “I need everyone to move to the front of the plane except you, sir. It seems we’re having trouble getting the nose of the plane back on the ground.”
I was relieved when in actuality a few of those uppity folks in the front of the plane had to move back with us commoners.
We took off from O’Hare at 3:24 p.m. and were due to land in Houston at 6:11. The plane and the flight were both about to head south, literally and figuratively.
Throughout the flight over the Great Plains the captain made periodic announcements that we were re-routing. We zigzagged east and west and back east again, dodging a string of storms that were assaulting the Heartland. We were well past our target time of 6:11 for landing in Texas when the captain informed us that severe weather continued to hover over the Houston airport. “We are told we will be in a holding pattern for at least an hour,” he said. His next statement brought me to the brink of projectile sweating: “By that time we will have some fuel issues.” He uttered this remarkable phrase as if he had just commented on a cute puppy.
This could only happen in a state that names their airport after George H.W. Bush. I just knew I was getting re-paid for all the times I took a shot at his son in my newspaper column.
He went on—“I fully expect that we will receive word in the next five or ten minutes that we are being re-routed to San Antonio.” Great—we were heading for the land of Red McCombs.
Fifteen minutes later, or as I call it—“T minus 45 minutes until we have fuel issues,” I was still waiting for an update on where and how we were going to crash, and was checking to see if I could tell from whence the oxygen masks would be dropping.
Finally, after another five minutes of agonizing, we got that update.
“Yeah, it seems that San Antonio could be out of our reach now.” At this point I may or may not have allowed an audible “gulp” to escape, depending on which witness you speak with.
“Instead, we are heading to New Orleans, which will not require as much of a fuel burn.”
Suddenly, we were headed for the Bayou State under the pretense that we might be able to get there before we ran out of fuel.
It took exactly 28 minutes (landing twelve minutes before we were to have “fuel issues”) to make the trip to New Orleans. According to the log on my company cell phone, I made the call from the runway in New Orleans to Kathy at 7:14 p.m. on Monday, April 27. About fifteen seconds after that call completed. I called Lyrae, my boss, just to thank her for sending me to Cajun country. As I heard her phone ringing through the speaker on my cell, I was reminded of those delivery room moments in the movies when the wife points to her tummy and screams at her husband, “LOOK WHAT YOU’VE DONE TO ME!!!”
Next week: Part III: Who would have guessed that the relaxing part of my flight was over?