Off the Mark

I predict you will want a pet!

2012-01-01T10:44:00.000-06:00

I have two orders of business to conduct in the blog you areabout to read (or not read). The first involves my encouragement to all to go out and adopt apet now that the hustle/bustle of the holidays is over. I admit to beingtotally manipulated by the ASPCA commercials featuring Sarah McLachlan urgingus to rescue a cute, furry animal. It makes me realize that it is probably goodI’m not a billionaire, because I would blow all my money on dogs and kitties.

I'm Spook, I'm 2 years old,
I'm neutered, and I'm waiting for you!

While purebread animals are adorable and photogenic, Iencourage you to go to one of the local animal shelters and rescue an animalthat has been abandoned and needs a home. For a small fee, you can bring home asmall friend who will love you unconditionally for as long as they live. Istill miss my late friend Joe, who left us way too early in his life. Now Ihave Torii, who does some serious bonding with me every morning before I go towork, and most days when I return. The purr-fests have gotten to the pointwhere I have adjusted my morning alarm from 5:45 to 5:30 so I don’t have topeel her off my chest in order to get to work on time.
I wouldn’t want to imagine my life without her.
I’m sure there are many area organizations that have petsavailable. The two I know of are the Tracy Area Animal Rescue (according toFacebook, the contact info is: email arvizu@iw.net,phone 507-828-8029). We met Torii at the Sioux Falls Area Humane Society, backwhen her name was Carmeland she looked so sad lying in that cage… If you go to http://www.sfhumanesociety.com/ youcan see many of their current residents that are up for adoption, with picturesand a short description of many. Are you a fan of cats? They have over 100 onhand right now.
Tell them I sent you!
My second order of business…you know you’ve been waiting forit…is my fearless predictions for the New Year. Remember you heard it herefirst:
I present to you my Top Ten Predictions for 2012:
10. Trouble will erupt in Hell when Osama bin Laden findsout his new roomie, Gadhafi, wants to watch nothing but reruns of “Dancing withthe Stars.”
9. About the second week of June somebody will break downand finally have to say, “I guess it will have to be you,” to Mitt Romney.
8. Kim Kardashian will start putting the shattered remainsof her life back together by getting engaged to a hockey player and booking some TV time for the wedding.
7. Anthony Weiner will appear before the Board of Reviewhoping for reinstatement, but the Board Chairman (his wife) will inform him hewill still be sleeping on (and tweeting from) the couch.
6. The Twins will rebound from The Season Of Which We ShallNo Longer Speak to win the World Series as Joe Mauer catches 150 games,Francisco Liriano wins 25 and Tsuyoshi Nishioka wins the Gold Glove. In othernews…Charlie Sheen will take a vow of chastity and Donald Trump will shave hishead.
5. At some point during 2012 I will get to a point when Ican picture in my head which actor is Dylan McDermott and which actor is DermotMulroney. (I have simple goals in life…next year I will work on sorting out actressesMary Louise Parker, Mary Stuart Masterson and Mary Elizabeth Mastrantonio.)
4. My extreme denial and incredulity will persist throughout the year as my egocontinues to take a beating over the fact that I can’t beat Paula Dovre inWords With Friends (Facebook Scrabble).
3. Residents of northwestern Lincoln Countywill gain regional attention with “Occupy Hendricks,” a grass roots attempt atbringing attention to the lack of cell phone coverage in the city. It willfizzle when out-of-town protesters find out they can’t send a tweet unless theydrive to the cemetery south of town and stand under the tree while holding awire coat hanger.
2. The Mayans will be proven right when the world ends onDecember 21^st, three days after Minnesota lawmakers approve a stadium planfor the Vikings.
And my number one Top Ten Prediction for 2012:
1. When my driver’s license gets renewed on January 26^th,I will be able to extend my streak of 10 consecutive license photos in which Iresemble serial killer John Wayne Gacy.
Happy New Year!

Merry Christmas

2011-12-18T11:57:00.000-06:00

As I was under the glaring spotlight of a deadline to get our annual Christmas letter done, I thought to myself, "why should I only subject this drivel to the undeserving 50 people on our Christmas card list?" And so, I decided to expand the carnage to the people on the "Off the Mark" mailing list also. I occasionally mention the fact that, according to the counter on the website, about 100 people click on the link and read all or part of it. What I don't mention is the fact that there are 150 people are directly emailed the link to my blog, leaving about 50 who want me to THINK they read it, but really don't want to suffer through it! What you are about to read may be one of the reasons for that defection rate.
Ladies and gentlemen, I give you our 2011 Christmas letter. (For those of you on our regular Christmas card list, you have the satisfaction of ignoring it TWICE this year!)

Torii

Merry Christmas everyone! For those of you who were thinking, "I just can't wait until the annual holiday letter from Mark, Kathy and Lindsay arrives," your wait is over. For those of you who are thinking, "HOW DO WE MAKE THEM STOP," please just skip to the asterisk at the bottom of the page...

January got off to a rollicking good start with Mark getting sent off to Tracy, California for some work training. He chose to drive instead of fly...his chance to get an up-close look at parts of the country he had never seen. Unfortunately, he ended up in the hospital fighting an infection for the four days preceding his departure. It took more than a little sweet-talking for him to get sprung from his hospital bed in time to make the trip. Heavily medicated, he made the trip and loved every minute of it...as Kathy and Lindsay were back in Minnesota shoveling snow.
The women got a bit of a payback however, as at the end of the month they made a trip to TwinsFest in Blaine with Todd and Nicole Denney. Lindsay even got to hang with mascot TC for a bit...
In March, Lindsay started part time at Miller Legal Strategic Planning Center (where Kathy works) while finishing up her final semester at MnWest in Pipestone. Later this year (September) she was hired full time. She still works there and is living in Tyler while she searches for employment in other areas.
During her spring break in March, she was able to thaw out her feet for a short time with a trip to Sanibel Island in Florida.

Relay for Life 2011

Mark and Kathy spent the second weekend of March in an equally hot spot...the 20th-plus annual Wilmes Family Board Game Weekend. We gave Mark's brother Clay a one-year respite from hosting and the event was held at the Tyler Senior Center.
The biggest news of March, however, had to be the new arrival to our home—a beautiful two-year-old kitty named Torii. We have loved every minute of her time with us...and as far as you can tell with a cat, the feelings are mutual.
Mark spent a lot of time this year at the Lake Benton Opera House. He performed in the "Broadway Meets Lake Benton" show in March and directed a comedy called, "'Til Beth Do Us Part" in April. Not quite having enough of a theater experience, we all made the trip to Chanhassen at the end of April to see "Jesus Christ Superstar."
On May 12th, Lindsay graduated from MnWest with an AAS degree as an Administrative Assistant. Her and Mark were honored to sing at the graduation ceremony, performing "Somewhere Over the Rainbow." Armed with her new degree, to go with her previous degree in graphics, she hopes to take on a tough job market and score a career.
In June, Kathy and her sister Karen spent the weekend at the Sculpture Walk, as well as visits to Indian Island and Morgan Creek wineries in the Mankato area.
The first weekend of July ended up a memorable one, as horrific straight-line and tornadic winds hit Tyler and took with it many beautiful trees and damaged scores of homes and businesses. We had two trees uprooted in our back yard and two more snapped off, as well as thousands of dollars of damage to our house. Somehow everybody in our little town survived, and with the help of countless hours of work from volunteers from surrounding towns, we are getting back to normal.

Cast of "The Dixie Swim Club"

On July 9th, Kathy's dad, Lowell married Doris Kjellsen in Badger, South Dakota. The whole family moved to South Dakota for the weekend and had a great time.
Much of July for Kathy was spent as co-captain of her Relay for Life team, CUREious George. This year we combined with another Tyler team, CancerMals. It was a fun and rewarding experience. Mark spent much of the summer back at the Opera House directing the musical, "Camelot."
Lindsay's 10-year high school class reunion was held on Aebleskiver Days in Tyler. She also got to see many Jensen family members from Iowa, Colorado and Arizona at a family reunion.
It was trip time again in August, as Kathy and Lindsay spent a few days at the Wilmes Women Weekend...this year in Door County, Wisconsin. Lindsay also spent some time roughing it in the Apostle Islands with her cousins and some friends. In September it was another winery. This time Kathy and Lindsay made a trip with our sister-in-law, Linda, to enjoy a "grape stomp" by Jordan, MN.
On October 1, Lindsay was back at Chanhassen with some high school friends to see "Hairspray."

Merry Christmas from Mark, Lindsay, Kathy and Torii

Kathy and Mark were both at the Opera House in October. Kathy starred with four other women in "The Dixie Swim Club." Mark directed, and after two weeks at the Opera House, the show moved to Pipestone for one weekend.
Lindsay was back in the air again in October, off to see her friend Jessie in Little Rock, AR. Kathy made a weekend trip to the Twin Cities with co-captain Carrie Johnson for a Relay for Life Summit.
November saw Kathy and Mark on a return trip to Chanhassen to see "Hairspray." The first weekend in December both Mark and Kathy performed in the Opera House Christmas Show. Mark directed this show also.
*

Here's wishing you all a very Merry Christmas!

Mark, Kathy and Lindsay...

Happily ever after…

2011-10-28T19:02:00.000-05:00

It seems I find myself constantly reminded of howquickly our lives go by. Here we are poised at the start of another holidayseason, with sale ads trying to tempt us with discounted prices on artificialChristmas trees. If my first half century is any indication, the next twomonths will breeze by at a breakneck pace. I do love those holidays. While we are on the subject of time going by, Ifind it unbelievable that it has been 20 years since the infamous “Blizzard ofthe Century,” when a large swath of Minnesotawas beaten senseless with several feet of snow and high winds.
That also means that come Thursday, November 3rd,Kathy and I will be celebrating 20 years of wedded bliss. For those of you who werethere with us, you know we were supposed to be celebrating that milestone onWednesday, November 2nd.
The quick recap, hitting just the high points,went something like this:
Halloween was on a Thursday in 1991. I was stilleight years from ending my career as a rock band bass guitarist/lead singer. Iclocked out of my job that afternoon at Tyler Wholesale and it was raining in Tyler. I packed up myband equipment and headed for the American Legion in Windom to play for adance. My plan was to be back later that night, and use my Friday off to helpwith our final wedding preparations, slated for Saturday, November 2^nd.It was three days later before law enforcement would let me out of Windom tocome home and get married.
I was snowed in with band mates at the JohnsonMotel, and Kathy with my family back in Tyler.Our groom’s supper was the first victim, it was cancelled early. As the snowcontinued to fall we cancelled the dance scheduled for Saturday evening, and itbecame evident as the hours went on, the wedding wasn’t going to happen either.
I finally made it back to town on Sunday morning,by way of Worthington,and we had wedding rehearsal as our guests were arriving for our postponed vowson Sunday afternoon. Our wedding trip to the Metrodome to watch the Vikingsplay Tampa Bay was history.
The biggest downside was the fact that the weddinghad to go on without some of our family and friends who were still unable tomake it to town. The upside, I guess, is we have quite a story to tell of thatweekend two decades past. It was even documented on the front page of theWindom paper.
Here we are 20 years later, still blindly, crazy,madly…okay, well we still get along pretty well. We still connect with apalpable unspoken closeness at home after all these years…me from the desk ofour home office and her from the bedroom where she is watching “ProjectRunway.”
I get emotional when I think of all the ways Kathyhas made my life better.
For starters, I never have to make a majordecision in our life, although sometimes I get to pretend I do. Young peoplecan’t imagine what a stress reliever that can be!
My days aren’t bogged down by financialmanagement. My paycheck gets deposited directly into “our” checking account,and I never see it again. I don’t even have to think about it…as a matter offact, I’ve been asked NOT to think about it many times.
I’ve been freed of any temperature controlresponsibilities in my home. I don’t even have to think about where thethermostat IS in our home…and yes, you guessed it…I’ve been asked NOT to thinkabout it many times.
Yes, ladies and gentlemen…it’s the married lifefor me. I highly recommend it.
Of course it is not just me who has lived ablissful existence. Kathy never has to worry about me botching a handymanproject around the home…although I’m pretty sure we have some tools somewherein the house. No Tim Allen-type issues for her.
I selflessly keep the DVD shelf stocked so shedoesn’t need to even leave the house if she needs entertainment.
There is seldom a day goes by that we don’t haveaccess to some sort of pizza.
I almost blush when I think about how she must goon about me when she is out with her friends.
Of course, the fact that we live in such anelevated state of happiness has its drawbacks. Time flies when you are havingfun.
Before we know it the date will be November 3^rd,2031 and we’ll be celebrating our 40^th wedding anniversary, spinningtales about our snowy wedding weekend.
And, of course, if I have my way, we’ll becelebrating with pizza and a movie.
Happy Anniversary Kathy! Here’s to setting sail onour next 20… How lucky are we?

Another year closer to being my dad…

2011-09-16T16:17:00.000-05:00

There are those who are said to wear their heartson their sleeves. Some profess to wear their sunglasses at night. According tothe old song from “Annie,” you are never fully dressed without a smile. Me? Iguess you could say I’m never fully dressed without wearing part of my lunch onthe front of my shirt.

It doesn’t seem to matter how careful I am. I canlean over my plate. I can hold my plate under my chin. I can wear my napkin as abib. It just doesn’t matter, I always end up with something dripped down thefront of my ample upper torso…and seemingly always within the first two orthree bites. There are times when it happens BEFORE I take my first bite—Ican’t seem to open a cup of yogurt without shooting an array of milky splatterart on my bosom.

My reputation of proudly displaying my leftoversis well-known to friends and relatives. Last year Santa left me Stain Stick inmy stocking.

My favorite shirt is a Beatles shirt because whenI wear it, it actually looks like John, Paul,George and Ringo have grease spotson THEIR shirts, taking a bit of the heat off me.

At the end of the day, I do my best to track downany residue from the day’s errant vittles and smear a modicum of waxy stainremover on each tasty splotch.

Unfortunately, it seems like more often than not,I apparently miss a spot or two, and when I pluck a shirt from my closet in themorning, a glaring grease spot or two mocks me from the bathroom mirror. Somemornings it is bad enough that I have to grab another shirt. I remove thesoiled blouse and slather it with more magic potion before tossing it in thehamper. Most mornings, however, the imperfections are faint enough to pass myfairly flexible standards for acceptability and I’m off to the office.

One morning last week, however, I scored…big time.I slogged through my workday pre-dawn regimen, and after donning my shirt, Idid my daily visual shirt scan in the bathroom mirror…and I saw a perfectlyspotless façade. I rubbed my bleary eyes, thinking that my usual morningfogginess was playing tricks on me. Not a chance. I had achieved what I hadpreviously assumed was unachievable. My shirt was spotless.

I left the house that morning armed with the confidencethat nothing could ruin what obviously was going to be a great day.

I spent my day exuding confidence that could onlybe realized by a man with a spot-free frock. Breakfast came and went withoutanything tumbling on to my belly. My post-lunch inspection somehow found medevoid of any peach Yoplait residue staring up at me from my bellyshelf.

I was on a roll.

The steak we had for supper that night, held ontoevery single drop of my Heinz 57 sauce. I was beginning to think I should havepicked up a lottery ticket—it was my lucky day.

Bursting with pride, my day ended as itbegan…scanning a spot-free t-shirt in the mirror before doffing it to step inthe shower.

That’s when my rosy cheeks went ashen. My heartskipped a beat or two. The t-bone in my tummy rolled over once, then twice.

It nearly escaped without notice, but it wasunmistakable…the small white corner peeking out above the neck of my shirt. Ihad spent the day at work wearing my shirt backwards. Pouring salt into thegaping wound of my self-confidence, I spun around and confirmed what I already suspected...the“back” of my shirt was riddled with grease spots.

Nobody said anything to me at the office. Maybethey didn’t notice. Maybe that glaring white tag remained hidden, keeping mefrom the hoots and catcalls of my co-workers.

Or maybe the punch line of the day (when I was notin the room) was, “on the bright side, there are no spots on his shirt!”

Nothing will surprise me from here on out. I fullyexpect, someday, to find my shirt tail sticking out the front of my fly, or mypants leg tucked in my sock. Maybe someday I’ll catch my reflection in themirror at work with my shirt crookedly buttoned. (Kathy will try to tell youthis has already happened.)

It was probably only a matter of time before somethinglike this happened. I’ve been known to stand in a room full of people andwonder why they are looking at me…as my cell phone rings in my back pocket.Some of you have probably followed me for 10 or 15 miles with my blinkerflashing.

I’ve most likely snored in church.

I’m a pair of Khaki shorts with black socks awayfrom being that old guy I see in Wal-Mart once in awhile.

Golden years, here I come.

What I did on my summer vacation…

2011-08-23T21:04:00.003-05:00

I was thinking the other day that I have a lot of things that make me happy in my life. I’m happy that I still like watching the Minnesota Twins, even though they aren’t doing very well this year. I’m happy that fall temperatures are just around the corner. I’m happy that I’m not Muammar Gaddafi right now.
I was so busy this summer that for a short time, I forgot I was happy. But then August arrived.
Ahhh, August. That light at the end of my proverbial summer tunnel. The pot of gold at the end of my humid rainbow. The carrot dangling from the end of my yard work stick.
Each year, August provides me with a short respite from the extracurricular activities to which I regularly subject myself. The summer musical is done and there is a gap of a couple of weeks before tryouts for the fall play. There is little activity in my world of part-time photography. Most of the weeds on my lawn have slipped into a drought-induced dormancy…
This August provided me with a particularly blissful lull. This year’s “Girls’ Weekend” for the women in the Wilmes family spanned five days…August 9-13. Kathy and Lindsay were headed for Door County, Wisconsin for five days, and since I had accrued a couple of days of vacation that were burning a hole in my pocket, I bestowed upon myself a four day weekend of my own. Just me and the cat.
The nice part about a four-day break is that it gives a person a joyfulness that spills over into the days preceding. The anticipation that comes with knowing that the time off is on the horizon is delicious.
When I was a kid, our family would take a week-long vacation every year. Without fail, an annual summer trip found us heading “Up North,” and trips to places like Paul Bunyanland and Deer Park and the Alexandria resorts were some of the fondest memories from my youth.
Somewhere in the ensuing 40 years, I’ve become a lump, and the joy I get from staying home rivals the memories of those wonderful childhood excursions.
The first thing when I got home from work on that Wednesday evening, Torii, my feline co-vacationer, thought we needed to order pizza. I looked at her and said, “you don’t eat pizza.”
“Then you’ll have to eat it yourself,” she meowed.
Forty-eight hours of leisure had begun.
While I certainly enjoy recreation as much as the next guy (we squeezed in a total of nine movies over four days), I get nearly as much pleasure from tending to my to-do list that grew longer over the summer. The relief that comes with knowing that long-overdue tasks can be put behind me brings me as much enjoyment as watching the Jason Bourne trilogy on DVD.
And that, my friends, is what I did on my summer vacation. Torii, who was apparently a bit lonely for the women of the house, seldom left my side. My home office also doubles as the coat closet, entertainment library, extra mattress storage and exercise room. My needy kitty spent the bulk of the four days hanging out next to me on the seat of the exercise bike or curled up in my orange plastic “IN” basket.
Although the break didn’t seem long enough, it nevertheless made heading into the next workweek somehow less daunting. I guess if you count the days of anticipation, the actual vacation, and the residual elevation of mood over the next week, I had about a two week break!
Life is back to what I consider normal now. Tryouts for the fall play were Monday evening, I’m back to taking sports pictures for the county schools and Torii is back to ignoring me.
And somewhere in my 70s, I’ll be hanging out at the Senior Center, reminiscing with some other wrinkled person with cataracts about that August back in 2011 when me and my cat sat around for four days watching movies, scarfing down pizza and swilling Diet Mountain Dew.
I hope I won’t have to listen to him ramble on about his trip to Arizona.

Maybe if Congress would settle their differences by jousting…

2011-08-05T08:27:00.002-05:00

Hello all! Long time, no blog.
As many of you probably know, I have been knee-deep in another Opera House production over the past seven weeks. We are in our final week of productions, so I can breathe a bit easier again...or at least I would be able to breathe easier if I didn’t have a summer chest cold for the second consecutive July/August.
For those of you who may have been worried that I wouldn’t have an online entry bragging about the cast of the current production, you can relax. Here it is!
First of all, thanks to George Jorgensen and Clarice Nordmeyer for the complimentary letters to the editor in the local papers about “Camelot.” Also, thanks to everyone else who have went out of his or her way to tell the cast members how much they liked the show. It’s not too late if some of you are still interested in seeing it. We have shows tonight (Friday, Aug. 5) at 7:30, Saturday at 2:00 and 7:30 and Sunday at 2:00.
I would also like to say thanks to a remarkable cast for another splendid summer. I am about to finish up my 20th consecutive summer spent at the Opera House. This year’s cast of “Camelot” made my job about as easy as possible, by working as a team, and more importantly, saving all the drama for on the stage!
The major characters are played by John Voit (King Arthur) of Ghent; Emilirose Rasmusson (Guenevere) of Ivanhoe; Erick Harper (Lancelot) of Tyler; John Williams (King Pellinore) of Brookings; Taylor Holck (playing both Merlyn and Mordrid) of Ruthton; and Paula Nemes (Morgan) of Marshall. These people and about 20 others on and off the stage have created a magical experience for the audiences. Their dedication to the development of their characters has been a joy to behold, and I have the pleasure of watching them perform that magic every evening.
The honest truth is that the audiences have averaged under 100 per evening. The summer musical is counted on by the Opera House board to provide most of our operating revenue for the rest of the year. We are hoping that word-of-mouth will help us build some crowds for the coming weekend. Not only would it help a long-time non-profit organization, but would be a great payoff for a couple of dozen volunteers who have been giving up their evenings over the past two months.
To conclude—thanks to everyone on stage and behind the scenes who have given of themselves while only receiving a compensation of the pride they feel in what they have done.
If you haven’t seen the show yet, time is running thin. Come and escape to the days of the Knights of the Round Table. Forget the woes of a tepid economy and dysfunctional government and television reruns and enjoy the efforts of a group of your neighbors and friends. I can’t imagine how anyone would regret it.
Oh yeah…and it is in 3-D. No weird glasses required!!!
See you at the show!

A little help from our friends (and a couple of kind strangers)

2011-07-08T07:06:00.002-05:00

It seems like I’ve been struck with a bad case of sporadic blogging recently. A combination of lack of time and…okay, just a lack of time, has kept me from imparting my useless nattering upon the masses. By masses, of course, I mean the approximately 100 people who trip the “unique visitors” counter when I post a new missive on my blog spot.
The weekend storm in our area prompted me to come out of semi-retirement from blogging. It was an amazing and breathtaking event. (I mean the storm, not my coming out of retirement.)
Last week at this time I was looking forward to a relaxing three-day weekend from work. Once again in the middle of rehearsals for an Opera House show, I allowed many of my obligations to stack up and was planning to reduce that ominous stack considerably, beginning first thing Saturday morning.
Then Friday happened.
I didn’t experience it first hand, but I was on my way home from work when it hit. I could see the big green wall over Tyler. I was traveling north on Highway 91 when the front arrived at my Blazer, along with a strange sensation that it was going to roll me right into the ditch. I pulled over to the side of the road, but winds stronger than I had ever experienced had me hoping over the span of the next 10 minutes that I would remain upright.
When I was finally able to proceed, I became more and more concerned with the state of the place I call home. Cell phone service was spotty at best, and Kathy (in the basement at Miller Legal) and I were somewhat able to communicate with each other in limited fashion. I got a message that I was supposed to swing by our house to make sure it was still there and to check on the kitty. It was over an hour, however, before I could get to town. I was turned around on Highway 14 due to downed power lines. I tried going north on Highway 23, but power lines and a rolled semi truck turned me around again.
I went south to Ruthton and was again stopped on the south end of Tyler. Finally I found a way in from the west and made it to downtown before having to park and walk the last block home. I was stunned at the amount of damage that surrounded me.
While we were thankful that we were all safe (although Torii was one skittish kitty after riding out the storm alone at home), and our house only had damage to a few windows and shingles, we were overwhelmed by the fact we had four trees lying in our yard. We weren’t sure where to start.
And we were among the luckiest residents in town.
Assuming that most of the equipment in town was engaged in bigger emergencies than our own, we waited and mulled our options. We kept ourselves busy by moving all the contents of our freezer to some friends who had power in Marshall (Thanks Chris and Michele). We filled our spare time bailing water out of our sump hole and lugging it to the sink across the basement. You wouldn’t believe how many five-gallon pails it takes to make the water level go down a half inch!
Somewhere around mid-afternoon we had a gift sent straight to us from heaven, in the form of nine gracious volunteers and a few pieces of equipment, large and small. A couple of chain saws, a backhoe and a skid loader descended upon our back yard and accomplished what an hour earlier seemed impossible. The crew: Darrell and Bernice Oerter, Todd and Nicole Denney, Brice Denney, Tyson Nielsen, Derrick Stage, Wally Lipinski and neighbor Don Mulloy pitched in and cleared our yard. I was humbled at the good will that was bestowed upon us. Somehow I got through thanking them all without standing there and blubbering, but not sure how I pulled it off.
The town was filled with Good Samaritan stories like that. Fire departments and electrical crews from all our neighboring towns were there to give up their holiday weekends for us. How do you say thanks to that?
We got our power back Sunday afternoon. After the sound of volunteer chainsaws, there is not much better than the sound of a sump pump sucking water out of your basement. It was sweet.
If there is a slacker in the area it would have to be (no surprise here) Mediacom. Six nights later we still have no cable or internet service. Anyone who knows me would have to wonder how I have survived. I’m usually connected around the clock. With intermittent cell service, my Droid phone occasionally had enough reception to get an infrequent glimpse at the outside world.
Near as I can see Mediacom has put in a couple of grueling six hour days. When Kathy called them to let them know we were still without service, the recording said that they were not aware of any outages in our area. Now THAT is customer service. What makes me even MORE frustrated is that when I actually did see them in town, they had a trailer holding a spool of coaxial cable parked on my back yard, right next to the pile of severed cable that once led to our house. That was two days ago.
I’m sure they will refund our money for being without cable or internet for a week.
Fortunately I’m still buoyed by the elevated mood that was infused by the good will of others, so I haven’t snapped…yet.
All-in-all I came out of the weekend thankful for our health, thankful that the damage wasn’t worse and thankful that (outside of cable and internet providers) we can count on the selfless kindness of our neighbors far and near.

We now pronounce you the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge…

2011-04-30T07:12:00.000-05:00

Hello all! I have afforded myself a bit of a break from blogging over the past few weeks. I’ve been a bit too busy playing with my new kitty. To avoid, however, being labeled as a middle-aged kitty blogger, I will save my Torii update for a future subject.
This week, of course, there is much bigger news than the daily antics of my cat. The news, in fact, is bigger than anything else happening on the entire globe. If the news cycle is any indication, it is the biggest news of the year.
I speak, obviously, of the Royal Wedding. William (not Bill) and Kate (not Catherine) have finally tied the Royal Knot.
I don’t get the appeal. It must be a guy thing, because I don’t see what all the fuss is about. How, I wonder, can we experience any joy from the marriage of a couple of Brits when my Twins are sucking so badly? Shouldn’t we be in mourning?
Being a dedicated Facebook user, I noticed many of my online friends getting very excited about the event over the past few days. It ranged from cracking open a bottle of champagne at 4:00 AM to a sleepover party to watch the ceremony. Now that I think about it, they were all female posts. The men were a bit distracted by the first round of the NFL draft.
To me, even more astounding than the general obsession with the wedding, was the fuss over Kate’s dress...and the work that went into making it.
The dress was designed by a woman named Sarah Burton, who counts among her customers a range of people from Michelle Obama to Lady Gaga. There was no word if she was the genius behind Gaga’s meat dress.
The details of the wedding gown have been protected as Top Secret for months. Not even WikiLeaks could sniff out the information. There was even a tent put up to hide her until the last possible moment! Can you say “over-hyped”?
I saw pictures. It is long and white…yup that’s a wedding dress.
According to USA Today, the dress was a “lacy, long-sleeved, sweetheart-neckline gown with lace overlay. With an ivory silk tulle veil trimmed with hand-embroidered flowers, sparkling tiara (thankfully she didn’t go with the non-sparkling tiara) and her hair swept half up, Middleton was the picture of princess perfection. It took some adjusting to fold the almost-9-foot train into the car, where she was seated next to her father, Michael Middleton.”
Here is where it gets freaky:
“Great care was taken in constructing the lace, a task that went to the Royal School of Needlework. According to details posted on the official royal wedding website, ‘the workers washed their hands every 30 minutes to keep the lace and threads pristine, and the needles were renewed every three hours to keep them sharp and clean.’”
Talk about feeling inadequate as I sit here typing in my faded sweatpants and “Real Men Eat Cookies” t-shirt.
There was no mention in any of the stories I read, if the people making William’s jacket washed their hands.
I guess if there was an upside for me in seeing non-stop wedding news over the past few days it would be that we got a bit of a break from listening to Donald Trump. Although, not unlike Kate Middleton’s celebrated wedding dress, that hair of his (which coincidentally is “half swept up”) must also take quite a team to construct.
Sorry girls, the excitement is over and now all us mere mortals must return to our mundane lives where tents are used for keeping the mosquitoes away and the people making our clothing seldom wash their hands.
And most days the only thing we’re cracking open at 4:00 AM is the bottle of Pepto Bismol.

Kitty shopping part 2: it’s a tortie!

2011-04-08T17:39:00.001-05:00

When I left you last week, I was describing our shopping trip to the Sioux Falls Area Humane Society and our search for a new kitty. We met a lot of cats that day who were fairly begging for our attention. I felt a tug from many of them. I had a hard time leaving the big old gray cat that had been there way too long. He didn’t stand a chance competing for attention with all the young, frisky fur balls. I was dazzled by young brothers Mikey and Melvin, two orange tiger-striped kitties who were adorable, but were only available as a package deal. The shelter wanted them to stay together, which is the only way I could imagine them. Of course, I kept wandering back to Fallyn…she was just so needy. Despite whatever my ego was trying to tell me, I noticed that it wasn’t just me, she reached out to everyone who walked by her cage. After much deliberation, and one more trip back to the Get To Know Them Room, we decided on a friendly little cat named Carmel. She was just the right mix of friendliness and playfulness. We paid the fee and signed all the paperwork, including a promise to get her spayed within 30 days. It was a good day. The only way it could have been better is if I would have been allowed to bring home two. Unfortunately, as with many disagreements in our home, I lost that vote 1-1. Our new family member is multi-colored—chocolate, cinnamon and cream, which I’m told makes her a tortoiseshell cat, or a “tortie.” Torties, in many cultures, are considered good luck. She was born in December of 2009, making her a little more than a year old, but small compared to my late buddy Joe. I was on a rollercoaster of emotions as we were heading down the interstate on our way home. At long last we had a pet to fill the void left by Joe and I was thrilled, but I was conflicted with feelings, knowing that we were leaving a lot of small cages filled with adorable friends behind, and there was nothing more I could do about it. I couldn’t get the vision of Fallyn out of my head, trying so hard to reach me from her cage; of Mikey and Melvin and their adorable playfulness; of poor Piper, who didn’t realize how close she was to coming home with us. I can’t imagine, now, making a different choice. I love our new roommate. After a few days of struggling over her new name, and lots of suggestions from family and Facebook friends, we stuck with a baseball name. She is now affectionately known as Torii. She has taken to our family very nicely. That nasty visit to the vet to be spayed is behind her and despite her continued fight against a little gingivitis, she is doing great. She has her own set of quirks. She likes to curl up and sleep in a tiny basket in the kitchen; she is obsessed with drinking out of the bathroom faucet; and she lets us know what is on her mind with a strange, low growl/meow that is about three octaves below what we were accustomed to with our old friend Joe. She loves to greet me when I get home from work, first by shouting her impatient growl/meow that she wants a trip to the bathroom sink…NOW! Then she insists on following me to my computer chair, where she climbs me and starts purring, with her front legs hanging over my shoulder and her back legs stretched to my waist. Joe used to wake me every morning between 4:00 and 6:00 AM. Torii lets me sleep and instead attempts to rouse Kathy. Gotta love this cat. As I said earlier, I left the shelter feeling a bit helpless, as if I was deserting lots of deserving pets who needed a home as bad as Torii, but I was wrong. I can work on YOU people to go for a visit. Start with a visit to http://www.sfhumanesociety.com/custAvailablePets.asp. Click the silhouette of the dog or cat to see what is available. A click on the rabbit silhouette will take you to a variety of other kinds of animals that are up for adoption. Check out the pictures and videos. I’m not sure how you could resist the lure of such friendly looking kitties as George or Scooter or Whitey. Check out the picture and video of the cat named Mouse or Herman or Al. Please…take a look at Piper! She is sooooo cute (and a little bit cross-eyed)! Go now and look………………………………………….um, what are you waiting for? Of course making the decision to adopt is only the beginning. If you aren’t interested in investing the time and affection involved, then don’t bother. I guarantee you if you make the commitment however, your affection will be returned tenfold. They grab you by the heart. Fortunately for me, my life is such that I have a few built in protections, but if circumstances were different, I could easily become one of those cat ladies you see on the news from time to time. Go now and check them out. A dog will absolutely turn its life and loyalty over to you and become your best friend. A cat isn’t quite as needy, but don’t require quite the time commitment. They can love you just as much as a doggie, they just don’t go advertising it all the time! If you can’t commit to adopting, there are other areas where you can help, with a donation of money or food for the animals at the shelter. There are shelters in our area also that could use your donations or adoptions. I’ll continue to check on my friends online. Fallyn was finally adopted a couple of weeks ago and she no longer needs to beg for affection through the front of her cage. Mickey and Melvin are sharing a home somewhere…they also were adopted. I won’t be happy, though, until Piper finds a home. Go now! Ask for her by name! Here is her link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ytpnkFim1cY&feature=player_embedded. You will not be sorry.

Kitty shopping!

2011-03-30T18:41:00.000-05:00

Okay, I think it is time to make the official blog announcement. WE HAVE A NEW KITTY! Several months after we lost our young friend Joe to some weird, disgusting attack on his lungs, we finally have another furry housemate. We adopted her from the Sioux Falls Humane Society on March 6th, but I dared not blog about her until my excitement had somewhat abated, lest I should sound like a 6th grade girl (right, Noelle?). For several weeks Kathy had been monitoring the Sioux Falls Area Humane Society website to see what cats they had on hand. It is a great site that has a list of dogs and cats that are up for adoption, with a small description, a photo and usually a short link to a YouTube video. The actual trip to Sioux Falls, however, kept getting put off. Finally, in early March, my niece Nicole and her husband Todd invited Kathy along for a shopping trip to Sioux Falls. I seized the opportunity and sent a text to Nicole, encouraging her to suggest a stop at the Humane Society while they were in town. It was decided that a pet carrier would be slipped into the back of the vehicle just in case. The plan was hatched and when Saturday came, I waited in painful anticipation for word from Sioux Falls that Kathy had made an adoption. After several texts and calls to my cell phone, I learned that she just couldn’t make a decision, and they were coming home empty-handed. I was bummed. Apparently, however, Kathy was also bummed, and when I suggested a return trip the following day, she consented. Ninety minutes later, we pulled up in front of the Sioux Falls Area Humane Society building east of town. It was hard not to get caught up in the excitement before we even entered the building. Jubilant children (and adults) were outside giving a test drive to several dogs who were bubbling with happiness at the prospect of making a new friend. Once inside, Kathy led the way to the kitty room, and I was about to fall in love…somewhere around six or seven times. A room with maybe 35-40 cages awaited me, filled with kitties passing the time as best you can in a cage. Half of the inhabitants barely noticed me walk by. The other half vied for my attention. We opened many of the cages—with a required trip to the Purel bottle between each—and held, petted and struggled to make a decision on which of these needy felines we would take home. The one Siamese mix kitty named Piper that Kathy had fallen for the previous day sealed her own fate by taking a bite out of her hand. Probably more a result of a long day of strangers handling her than her regular demeanor, but when you are making a choice that you have to live with for many years, the smallest thing can make you turn your attentions elsewhere. Unfortunately, as of today, poor Piper is still waiting to get adopted. (Maybe we should go back and rescue her?) In a cage near Piper was a small orange and white kitty named Fallyn that was doing everything in her power to get my attention. She meowed and meowed and stretched her “arms” out the front of her cage as far as she could, and fairly begged to be hugged. I could not resist her charms. When I opened the cage she fairly jumped into my arms and a round of purrs began immediately. She scaled every inch of the ample real estate that I call my body and made the most of her trip outside the cage. We took her in the “Get To Know Them Room,” and the hyper fluff ball jumped and played and spun. She was a handful, to say the least. Since we wanted to see all the kitties before we made a choice (and since Kathy didn’t really seem all that enamored with my frisky little orange friend) we tucked the reluctant tabby back in her cage. She immediately pressed the side of her furry face against the front of the cage and thrust her little arms out to me, meowing excitedly. It seemed that another potential owner who failed to succumb to her adorable presence was about to walk away, she no doubt was thinking. I wondered if all the previous potential owners who walked away experienced the same tug in his or her heart that I did. Next week: We added to our family…and you should too.

My January, The Final Chapter: Ready to do it again…

2011-03-17T22:06:00.006-05:00

As I mentioned last week, I was out of the training classes early on the final day in California. While it would have been fun to lollygag around in the 60-degree weather, my hopes were to make the drive back at a bit more leisurely pace than the trip out was. I decided to split up the travel over an extra day on the way back.
On Thursday, January 20th, after finishing my obligations in California I pointed my vehicle east. I was surprised how much less intimidating the Sierra Nevada mountains were heading home than on the trip out. While it seemed like 50 miles straight down hill when heading west, it actually wasn’t nearly that bad, I noticed, when I didn’t have to worry about a deadline.
I drove past Reno and well into Nevada before stopping for the night. I remember from my trip out, a sign caught my eye that said “Downtown Lovelock.” I contemplated how a town could get a name like that, and tried to remember the last time I myself had had a good downtown lovelock. That was enough to make me pull into Lovelock, Nevada and bed down for the evening. Turns out, Lovelock appeared to be a long-time casino town. There were several older hotels that all seemed to have been constructed some time back in the 1950s. I chose one at random and checked in for the night. It turns out, according to the signed photograph on the front counter that Merle Haggard had stayed at the motel at one time. I figured if the place were good enough for the Okie from Muskogee, it was good enough for me.
While it was most definitely an older décor, it was clean and comfortable, complete with a kitchen and a nice, fast internet connection. This seemed incongruous considering the TV channel lineup still listed “The Nashville Network” on the list. There hasn’t been anything called “The Nashville Network” for many years (it is now called Spike TV).
All in all, though, a pleasant stay, and now, if anyone asks, I can say, “yes, I actually had a downtown lovelock in January…it was great.”
On Friday, the 21st I hit the road again, with the goal of getting to Salt Lake City and picking up a new supply of insulin. It was my misfortune that I was arriving in Salt Lake City at about 5:00 in the afternoon, and the traffic was crazy. My GPS decided to display its sense of humor again, and after several times around several blocks and some very narrow streets, I finally found the Walgreens and scored the rest of my drugs. The bad news was that it was closing in on 7:00 by the time I made my way back to Interstate 80 and resumed my return trip.
With a more flexible travel schedule on my way home, I had the opportunity to stop occasionally and take some pictures that I wished I had taken on the way out. I scored my Tree of Utah picture, but mostly pictures of signs I found amusing. Weird, I know.
Some of my favorite signs I saw during my travels included the sign marking Old Woman Creek and an eating place called 9 Beans and a Burrito. Signs throughout Utah that lectured me about driving drowsy were somewhat entertaining. One sign I saw, I think it was Lusk, Wyoming, was a sign that encouraged people not to drive drunk. It said, “Santa Claus is coming to town. Don’t hit him.” Unfortunately, I was in traffic and didn’t get a picture of that one.
Another of my favorites was a sign marking the Boner Ranch. Owned, I presume, by Mr. and Mrs. Boner and inhabited by several little Boners. Another 50 miles down the road I saw another sign for a ranch. I don’t remember the name of the ranch, it was something like “The Triple R Ranch.” It was the small print at the bottom of the sign that caught my eye. “One of the proud family of Boner Ranches.”
My trip back was mostly uneventful, but I did finally run into some bad weather. Not long after I turned off the interstate in Wyoming, I drove into some whiteout conditions. A group of four or five of us crawled the last five miles into Lusk, Wyoming. It was about 4:00 Saturday afternoon, and the weather had been perfect up until that point. When I learned that teams from a local basketball tournament had been instructed to spend the night in town, I decided I would cut my day short. I checked into a Best Western motel, braved blizzard conditions to make it to the Subway and back for a sandwich, and kicked back to watch a couple of movies on my laptop.
This made my final day of travel, on Sunday, longer than I had hoped and I arrived home at around 7:00 with a back seat full of laundry and a need to sleep in my own home.
People still look at me like I’m nuts when they hear I drove to California and back, but I would make that choice again in a snap. I love driving to begin with. I like being alone with my thoughts or with an exciting audio book. I like the fact that nobody tells me where to sit or when I have to board or when I will be rationed a beverage. I fit into my seat…that’s a big one. I can carry on as many bags as I wish. I can sleep in until I’m rested and entertain myself as late as I wish. If I want an Egg McMuffin for breakfast, then by golly that is what I’ll have.
Never once during my trip did I look down, outside my window, and see lightning. Yikes!
I got to see the U.S.A in my Chevrolet, and thankfully it was somewhat dampened by a bum leg, or I may not have come back. There are thousands of signs out there just waiting to be photographed!

My January, Part V: The search for drugs continues…

2011-03-09T21:46:00.000-06:00

My two days in California were relaxing. My purpose for the trip was to get educated on how to train new hires in the company in general policy and safety issues. The organizers were very gracious and made sure I had an extra chair on which to perch my swollen right leg.
Speaking of the infamous leg…the infection was doing all kinds of crude things, reminiscent of the great plagues of biblical times. It gradually went from blisters to open wounds to crusty protrusions over the span of the trip, covering about 50% of my leg from toe to knee. One night I woke up and I believe I saw locusts circling. It reminded me of what some of the zombies looked like on the recent AMC “Walking Dead” series. The swelling, however was going down, and I would find on my way home that the coverage of the disgustingness gradually decreased.
You may recall from about three or four blogs ago, I was prescribed lovenox as I headed out on my trip, and they could only find three days of dosage in the entire city of Sioux Falls. That means I had to find some more in California.
In addition, I had horribly misjudged the amount of insulin I would need to get me through until I got home.
A quick call to Dr. Snow’s sidekick Nurse Linzie, and she called ahead to a Tracy Wal-Mart with a prescription. Having an hour for lunch during the training, I thought I would make a quick run to pick up the meds. Of course, nothing goes quickly when you need it to go quickly. I arrived to a very long line at the Wal-Mart pharmacy counter. About 45 minutes later, I found myself at the front of the line, ready to grab my stash and make a run for the training center. Yeah, right.
We are sorry, we don’t have any lovenox in stock, if you would like we will make some calls to other pharmacies to try to locate some,” the beleaguered young counter jockey told me. I thanked her and said I didn’t have enough time but would come back later in the day. “And,” she added “you will be able to pick up your insulin on February 3rd.”
I told her that yes, I had plenty at home, however I needed one vial to get me back to Minnesota, as I had not brought enough with me to make it home.
She apologized that there was nothing she could do about it.
I told her I would be back later in the day to attempt to resolve the issues, and made a beeline back to the training facility.
After another two grueling hours of training we were released for the day, and I returned to the friendly local Wal-Mart.
To my dismay, I found another long line. I plopped myself down between a funny-smelling old guy with a walker and a young mother with two very vocal babies on one of those metal benches the store provides.
I was hardly there for more than a couple of minutes, thinking I would really like to move, but didn’t want to look rude, when one of the pharmacists came out to talk to me. Things were starting to look up. He recognized me from earlier in the day, and remembered that I left wanting, but couldn’t remember the specifics. I explained the lovenox issue and he escorted me to a different window, where a young woman was asked to find me some of the elusive drug in the surrounding area. I stood at the counter for a long period of time while the pleasant attendant repeatedly made calls and was rejected by stores that normally are their competition. After maybe 20 minutes, another lady came by and offered to help make calls. I was impressed that they were taking these great lengths to find me some blood thinner. After a few more minutes, the second lady handed the phone to the first lady, and told her she found some. A Walgreens a few miles down the road had the other four days of dosage I would need. I thanked them multiple times and headed for Walgreens, where I scored my stuff.
Still looming was the problem that I would be running out of insulin by Friday evening.
Being the procrastinator that I am, I left the issue until Thursday.
Originally, my plan for Wednesday evening was to take the one-hour trip to San Francisco and do a bit of sightseeing, but I had promised to behave myself, and I headed to my room to put my leg up and watch a couple of movies.
Thursday was a shorter day of classes, and at about 1:30 I stepped out into the glorious 60 degree sunshine, and started my long journey home.
When I finally remembered I still had drug issues a couple of hours later, I placed a quick call to Dr. Snow and he recommended that we switch to another type of insulin that would get me past the Aetna issue. Forgetting I was two hours earlier on the West Coast than the Midwest, I placed a call for Nurse Linzie and was told she had left for the day. After I realized my mistake, that I was still mired in Pacific Time, I resolved that I was going to have to wait until Friday and cross my fingers. The unlucky person who answered the phone, another of my fine care-givers, Nurse Laura, listened patiently to my painful story. We were about to conclude, when she spotted Linzie trying to head home and pulled her from the verge of freedom. She was summoned to the phone and I explained my plight. I gave her the name of a pharmacy I would be driving near in Salt Lake City, and she assured me she would fix my problem; as I mentioned last week she literally saved my life. Imagine me driving on the return trip through Utah, my blood sugar goes nuts I start sweating, my hands slip on the steering wheel, and I end up driving headlong into the Tree of Utah. I still get a shudder just thinking about it.
Next week: Salt Lake City during rush hour…the trip home continues.

My January, Part IV: California at last

2011-03-03T18:57:00.001-06:00

One nice thing I discovered during the course of my trip was the fact that gas in Wyoming and Utah was 40-50 cents per gallon cheaper than in Tyler, but that started to change once I crossed the Nevada border. Just across the state line I pulled into a gas station in West Wendover, and the gas was suddenly up over three dollars a gallon. I would learn that the prices would continue to rise and would get to a ridiculous $3.35 per gallon once I crossed the California state line. Of course as of this week, we wish gas were only $3.35 per gallon here in southwestern Minnesota.
The other thing I noticed was the lack of rural dwellers. Here in our quaint little area of the country you don’t have to drive far to pass another farm place. You can head out past the Johnson place, turn left at the Hansen farm, wave at the Petersen’s on your way by and pull into the Anderson’s driveway all in the span of a few miles. Out in the Wild West, you can go many miles between towns and never see a yard light. That reality combined with sporadic cell phone coverage and it can make a gimpy post-hospital stay old fat guy a bit uneasy.
Nevada, while it also has its share of sagebrush, provided a labyrinth of twists and turns in the interstate, circumventing numerous small mountain ranges. The ups and downs traveling through valleys and mountain passes provided a stark contrast to the flatness of Wyoming and much of Utah. I had expected to be more in awe of the sight of the “mountains majesty” during the trip, but while fun to look at, they weren’t nearly as intimidating to drive through as I had imagined.
The whole intimidation part was ratcheted up a few notches, however, once I passed Reno. For about 50 miles it was a head rush of a half dozen semi trucks and me heading downhill. It was more than a little disconcerting.
In addition to being swept down the mountainside, there was a string of road signs that didn’t exactly get me in my comfort zone:
Trucks Must Have Chains
8% grade next 20 miles
Wildlife Crossing
Curve ahead-45 MPH!
And my favorite:
Beware of Falling Rocks.
It was kind of like playing Super Mario Brothers, except you only get one life.
Somewhere during that downhill slide, I crossed into California, and the trip turned creepy when I saw the sign announcing I was approaching the “Donner Pass.” On the bright side, I guess, nothing I would be encountering would approach the travails of the Donner Party members, who were snowed in the mountains in the mid-1800’s and began to eat each other to survive. Probably the worst-ever scenario as a result of lost cell phone reception. (Let’s pray nothing like that ever happens up in Hendricks.)
In the area surrounding Truckee, California, they are apparently quite proud of their Donners. If you spend enough time there, you will come across signs for Donner Way, Donner Lake, Donner Creek, Donner Peak and Donner Memorial State Park. I vowed if I came upon a sign for the Donner Diner I would be taking a different route home.
I didn’t.
Still hurtling downhill well past Truckee, I finally came across a sign for the Foothills Motel.
I could finally take my foot off the brake.
It wasn’t long before I was obviously in California. For the first time in my long life, I found myself being swept along in eight…count them…eight lanes of traffic all going the same direction. Crazy! If I wouldn’t have had both hands clutching my steering wheel, I would have loved to have brought back a picture of the sign that said, “Right 5 Lanes Must Turn Right.” Wow! Back home that would cover Highway 14, Highway 19, and half of Highway 68.
So, for the final leg of my trip, there was little chance to survey the scenery as I was forced to concentrate on driving 70 in a large crowd.
At that speed it wasn’t long before I reached the end of my 1800-mile journey and arrived in Tracy. The Travel Gods did get to enjoy one more jab, as my GPS, programmed to take me to the Hampton Inn, instead led me to Taco Bell, on my left, with the announcement, “arriving at Hampton Inn, on left.”
I swear I heard the GPS lady’s voice giggle just a bit.
A half hour later I finally found my hotel and it was time to relax.
I even had the good fortune of being next door to a Sonic Drive Inn, and scored a decadent double cheese burger and chili tots before retiring for the evening.
Well past the mid-point of my life, I finally found myself in California. Home of…um…the California Burger, I guess.
The temperature outside was just under 60, which I didn’t mention to Kathy, who was home scooping the driveway every day in temps hovering around 0. She reminded me of this each time we talked on the phone over the span of seven days, hardly noticing how good she was making me feel.
So the segment of my trip that worried me the most, getting to Tracy in time, was over and it was time to enjoy a couple of days of classes in sunny California.
Next week: Nurse Linzie saves my life. (This blog topic, incidentally, was suggested to me by the aforementioned Nurse Linzie.)

My January, Part III: Exceeding my recommended salt intake in Utah…

2011-02-25T19:13:00.001-06:00

So as we learned last week, the barren nothingness that was South Dakota was only a warm up for the barren nothingness that would be Wyoming. The hundreds of miles of bushy weeds and ranchland gave me new appreciation for the lushness that is Lincoln County, Minnesota.
Understand, that I was still thoroughly enjoying myself, but what kind of blog would it be if I didn’t complain?
So, my hopes of getting a glimpse of Yosemite Sam never materialized on my sojourn across Wyoming. (Just a side note before we leave Wyoming…when you see those Verizon commercials on TV and the entire country is red except for an oblong stretch of white in Wyoming??? Yeah, I drove through most of that white.)
My spirits were jumpstarted as the “Welcome to Utah” sign stood out amongst the roadside brush. Certainly my stretch of endless Ponderosa was behind me. It’s no wonder the Cartwrights were always so crabby. (Sorry, that reference will only mean something to people late 40s and older.)
I wasn’t too far into Utah before I encountered my first of two bad weather events I would endure on the trip. Darkness had fallen and I was moving into the mountainous region just east of Salt Lake City. Several times I drove in and out of snow squalls and I got more than a bit nervous as they became longer in duration and more intense, making me rethink my plan to get as far as Salt Lake City before I stopped. A phone call home and I had Kathy and Lindsay looking for my next option for a hotel, and I ended up deciding to stay in Coalville for the evening.
When I was imagining how my trip would go before I left, I had visions of checking into my hotel each night and finding myself some good food before returning to my room, connecting to the internet to spend the evening answering emails, updating my family on the state of my problematic appendage and doing a little Facebooking. My Coalville stop at the Best Western was the start of bad luck for evening meals on the trip. The only other building in sight was the convenience store next door, and I ended up grabbing a blueberry muffin and a bag of Cheetos before heading into the hotel to check in.
The lady at the front desk told me she had a single room and said, “do you have an AARP card?” I looked around to see if anyone’s grandparents were checking in at the same time as me before realizing she was talking to me. I felt even worse when I realized I actually DID have an AARP card. “That will be $10 off,” she said.
She did NOT add, “…and by the way big boy, you don’t look old enough to be carrying an AARP card.”
My evening didn’t get any better when I got to my room. Despite following all the instructions and jumping through all the hoops, I COULDN’T CONNECT TO THE INTERNET!!!! I called the help line listed in the room info, and they told me they could not help me. (I resisted the urge to add the word “no” before the words “help line” in the hotel info.) I was told I had to have them reboot the router at the front desk.
So I trudged down to the front desk and she rebooted the router, to no avail. I still couldn’t connect. This issue actually ended up getting me another $10 knocked off the price of my room. Since the company was paying for my room, I would have gladly traded the $10 to be able to connect, but I resigned myself to digging into my spread of blueberry goodness and Cheetos and watch a rerun of “Everybody Loves Raymond.”
I was living the good life.
At least I had an insulin shot in the leg and a lovenox shot in my stomach to look forward to…
Tuesday morning ushered in new excitement as the snow had cleared and the sun was shining brightly. That was good, because it was going to be a long drive to get to Tracy, California by evening.
So, I’m not really sure what my mind had imagined I would see in Utah, but again I was in for a surprise in just how underwhelmed I could be. Drop a load of Round-Up on Wyoming, and you have the scenery encountered in Utah. Miles and miles of…um…of…sandy-looking mushiness. If I were to have conjured a mental image of quicksand, that is exactly what I saw lining the roads of Interstate 80. This stretch is also named the Dwight D. Eisenhower Highway, no doubt because the lay of the land resembles old Ike’s desolate pate. (Again, those under 40, feel free to Google an image of our 34th President) I always assumed that the “salt flats” were a small area around some town named Bonneville, but the brown, watery blandness goes on for miles. If the pictures I’ve found online since my trip are any indication, they may possibly turn white when they dry out in the summer.
Many miles of this bland panorama was suddenly interrupted about 100 miles west of Salt Lake City, when I came across an odd, colorful sculpture protruding on the horizon (pictured). With road signs threatening me that I wasn’t allowed to stop, I grabbed a drive-by, through-the-windshield photo of the peculiar monument. It wasn’t until I got home a few days later that I would do some research and find out what it actually was. I had no idea what it was called, or where to start looking, so I went to Google and typed the words “strange monument in Utah by interstate 80.”
It was the first link that came up.
My investigation revealed it was called “The Tree of Utah.” One site I was on said that it was built and installed “between 1982 and 1986.” So, apparently it was only about 25 years ago, but nobody actually wrote down the exact date that it was erected. Somebody apparently drove by it one day, hypnotized by hundreds of miles of salt flats, and said, “hey, when did they put that thing there?!!!”
And somebody anwered;
“Well, I guess it was probably mid-80s…I know it wasn’t there in ’81, and I remember I first noticed it just before Christmas in 1986.”
The website said it was built by a Swede named Karl, who built it to bring “bold color and beauty to the stark, flat, salty landscape.”
I, too, was startled at the vast stretch of nothing, but leave it to a Swede to actually stop and do something about it.
Next week…the ghosts of the Donner Party live on. (Google THAT one, kids, but not before you eat.)

Wyoming: “We have sagebrush.”

2011-02-16T18:45:00.001-06:00

When we left my story last week, I had just whined my way out of the hospital and was due to make a 27-hour drive to California.
A little background first.
Several weeks ago, I was asked by one of my superiors at work if I would be interested in taking some training to be certified to train new hires in general company policies and safety regulations at enXco. Always willing to try to add something to my list of reasons that the company might want to keep me, I enthusiastically said, “yes.”
“Great,” said Chris, the Area Operations Manager, “go ahead and book a flight to Tracy, California. You’ll have classes on January 19th and 20th.”
There…I had done it again. The guy who made it through the first 51 years without having to fly, was facing the unpleasant reality of flying twice in two years.
If you have been reading this blog since the beginning, you may remember what happened the first time I flew, back in 2009. If not, you can scroll down to the archives on the left side of this page. Find the July 2, 2009 column entitled “You Want Me to What?” Over the ensuing five columns, you can learn about my near-death experience with United Airlines.
So here I was, facing another flight and I felt that familiar nausea creeping into my stomach.
The timing of the trip got me thinking of ways to opt out of the flight. It happened that it fell on a week when I already had Monday off, for Martin Luther King Day.
What if, I thought, I left on Sunday and drove to Tracy, California. I ran the idea past the Powers That Be, and was told I could get compensation for driving out if I chose to do that.
Magically, my nausea immediately disappeared.
In addition, other than in pictures, I had never seen any of our fine country west of Rapid City.
After a little online Mapquest research, I found that it would be an1,800-mile drive to Tracy…about 27 hours. I decided to leave Sunday morning, the 16th, and make a leisurely drive, arriving at my hotel in Tracy late Tuesday afternoon.
And then the leg thing happened (see last week’s blog).
In order to get the official okie-dokie to make the trip I had to make the following promises:
1. Give myself blood thinner shots in the stomach twice a day.
2. Closely monitor my blood sugar.
3. Stop every one to two hours on the trip and walk for 10 minutes.
Even with those promises, I seemed to get a look from LuAnn Weber, P.A., that said, “I can’t believe you are walking out of the hospital and driving 1800 miles.”
This is only slightly better that a look that would have said, “I guess I can’t stop you from dying if you want it that badly.”
The two looks are similar, so she may have actually been conveying the latter…
By the time I finished my hospital obligations and took care of a few urgent matters I had ignored while in the hospital, it was after 1:00 Sunday afternoon. I was already four hours behind where I wanted to be.
I was required to stop in Sioux Falls to pick up the Lovenox, that was in charge of preventing any blood clots forming during the trip. Unfortunately, there was only enough Lovenox in the entire city of Sioux Falls to get me through three days. Fortunately, it would be enough to get me to California.
After leaving late and another delay while Lewis Drug called around town to see if they could come up with more Lovenox, I only made it as far as Rapid City on the first evening. This would leave a healthy dose of driving to get to Tracy at a decent time on Tuesday night. I was not discouraged.
I departed Rapid City Tuesday morning with a belly full of Lovenox and a great attitude. Shortly thereafter, I proceeded to cross over into Wyoming. Their state symbol is a silhouette of a cowboy riding a bucking horse, but that is most certainly a misrepresentation. It should be a silhouette of sagebrush. I think I saw six horses, but hundreds and hundreds of miles of sagebrush. Although all the men do wear cowboy hats. (Much more fashionable, I suppose, than sagebrush hats.) I did get a bit excited in line at a Wendy’s somewhere in the Land That God Forgot. I was standing behind a line of seven gentlemen wearing big cowboy hats, and one guy that was actually wearing a baseball-style cap. I got a little tingle. It was short lived however. When he turned, I saw the front of that baseball-style hat. It was embroidered on the front with a silhouette of a cowboy riding a bucking horse. Yikes!
I did think, as I was driving across this giant ranch, that it was kind of quaint the way someone had painted mountains in the far distance, looming over the sagebrush, that somehow never got any closer. They were just…I don’t know…there.
And so for much of the first day of my first ever trip to California. I saw hours of tumbleweeds-to-be, interspersed with thousands of those old windmills and an occasional butte.
I got more than a little excited as I approached the Welcome to Utah sign. Finally, a little variety to the landscape.
Next week: Utah, land that looks a lot like Wyoming, without the sagebrush.

Another stay at the THC Hilton…

2011-02-07T20:10:00.000-06:00

It seems that I have been slacking off in my blogging duties lately. Between a host of medical issues and traveling across the country, I haven’t set aside any time to write anything.
I’ve actually had a pretty eventful January…and not necessarily in a good way. The story starts back on Sunday, January 9th, when I came down with what I had diagnosed at the time as the flu, complete with fever and chills and about 36 hours straight of sleeping. After starting the year with a fresh set of five sick days at work, I had already used two of them by January 11th. I went to bed Tuesday night feeling much better and ready to get back to work on Wednesday.
I was about to change my diagnosis, as I think now, looking back, that the fever was a precursor for what would ultimately land me in the hospital.
When I got up for work on Wednesday, I was greeted by a swollen right leg from toes to knee, that was a sort of neon purple. In my divine wisdom, I decided I should go to work, as I had already missed two days that week, and made an appointment to see Dr. Snow after work.
Imagine my joy when the good doctor decided that I needed to check into a room for a few days. The diagnosis was an infection in my leg. The first 24 hours was wonderful…not. Wanting to keep my blood sugar stable, I was on an insulin pump, and I had to have my finger pricked every hour through the night and into the next day.
Complicating matters was the fact that I was scheduled to leave for California on Sunday for some training for my job. We needed to get me healthy and on the road.
It was like old home week for me. I got to hang with many of my nurse friends from previous stays. They provided their typical top-notch care and I racked up my typical amount of sleep. None. There is something about those beds…they are evil.
I have a history with my buddies at the hospital, where their names could show up in, at one time, a newspaper column, and now, a blog or a Facebook post. I have the advantage of saying anything I wish and their hands are tied for defending themselves due to the HIPAA privacy laws…right Charis? Unfortunately, they are all so good to me that it would be kind of thankless of me to taunt them. I hate having a conscience.
Whatever…the nice part is that they have to be nice to me. It is part of the job. I have no idea if they go to the break room and warn everyone that “he is back!.”
I’m probably a little more work than your average patient. I have to have my laptop, which requires a table and an electrical outlet, as well as my cell phone, which requires an occasional electrical outlet, and then of course a fan, which requires a chair and yet another electrical outlet. Fortunately there were still two outlets for my antibiotic drip and the insulin drip.
I will be the first to admit I am addicted to being connected at all times to the internet. Email, news stories, Facebook, opinion columns…it could be a full-time job if I so desired. When I’m not connected through my laptop, I am connected through my smart phone. During a nasty hospital stay in which I can’t sleep, it comes in handy. When I ran out of online newspapers, I had a stack of DVDs with which I occupied my time.
Whatever you may have heard, I have never asked for anyone to stand at my bedside and pluck grapes to drop in my mouth.
With a bit of begging and a few promises, I was able to be dismissed in time to head to California. On Saturday, I was able to talk a reluctant LuAnn into letting me check out so I could go home and get some actual sleep. I had to promise to come back every six hours through Sunday morning to get another bag of antibiotics. I slept like a rock in the comfort of my home.
After a week of being derailed with health issues, I had a few fires to put out at home before I could embark on my trip, and didn’t get out of town until after lunch, not a good start to my 1800-mile drive.
Next week, I’ll let you know how that went.

It could happen…

2011-01-04T20:50:00.000-06:00

Everywhere you looked over the past couple of weeks, someone was making predictions about the coming year. In keeping with my own little annoying tradition, I bring you my top ten predictions for 2011.
10. The Hattiesburg, Mississippi Bingo League will grow frustrated in September when Brett Favre can’t decide whether or not he is joining.
9. In July, after six months of give and take and bipartisan bargaining over the big issues in our country and multiple meetings with President Obama, Democrats and Republicans will announce that they haven’t reached any agreements, but they have decided to break for Independence Day.
8. The New York Yankees will buy the Seattle Mariners.
7. Sarah Palin will “refudiate” the big government overreach of indoor smoking bans. “Ya know, our forefathers were known to light one up in the Oval Office once in awhile. Since when is this country afraid of a little lung cancer?”
6. Bad news: the Twins home opener will be snowed out in April. Good news: there will be no problem with the roof caving in.
5. Sports call-in geniuses will call for the firing of Leslie Frazier after the Vikings lose their first game of the 2011 season.
4. I will be the beneficiary of a rescue effort in February when an avalanche will bury me between the massive snow piles at the end of our driveway.
3. On her way out of her rehab facility, Lindsay Lohan will violate the terms of her probation and be escorted back in the building.
2. Wikileaks will reveal that the texts Brett Favre sent to Jenn Sterger actually contained pictures of Aaron Rodgers’ willy.
And my Number 1 Prediction for 2011…
1. In an effort to dramatically improve their bottom line, my insurance company will decide to just have me shot.

It’s nearly here!

2010-12-22T21:27:00.002-06:00

Well, Christmas is close enough to smell. Several instances of spontaneous baking have broken out in our house over the past few days. I may or may not have been dreaming last night when I thought I awoke to a faint hint of figgy pudding hanging in the air. It was probably a dream, since I would have no clue how figgy pudding actually smells.
I finally buckled down and finished Christmas shopping on Tuesday evening. Unfortunately, I always leave the most difficult portion of my shopping list until last, which causes a wee bit of stress to creep into my normally calm world. I have a simple remedy for my holiday shopping stress. Whenever I feel myself getting a bit on edge, I throw something in the cart for myself. It has an amazingly calming effect on me. I tested it recently and found that my level of serenity is directly proportionate to the number of $5 DVDs I unearth in the discount bin. You can almost imagine what a 2TB Western Digital Desktop External Hard Drive would do for me.
Although I’ve somewhat moved on from the excruciating anticipation I would experience at eight years old, I still get pretty darned excited as Christmas nears. Despite what those of you who know me might think, it really isn’t about the presents. I can buy myself presents anytime throughout the year. There is something magical about getting together with family at Christmas. It wouldn’t be the same without them.
This year has been a bit sobering as the big holiday nears, as I’ve had two family members do a stint in the hospital in the past couple of weeks. My mom and my brother Clay, I’m happy to say, are both on their respective roads to recovery, but it certainly reminds a person of the fragility of life. I selfishly hope (a long ways down the road) that I’m the first of the Wilmes kids to go, because I can’t imagine the hole that would be left if any were to be gone before me.
Kathy and I recently had a conversation with a friend of ours who was extolling the virtues of staying home at Christmas with just his immediate family. He was nearly giddy with excitement. Again, I suppose, this is a testament to the magic at Christmas. These are the same people with whom he spends every single day of his life, but the excitement is elevated this time of year. I love my immediate family dearly, but I can’t imagine ever being forced to give up spending time with Kathy’s and my extended families at Christmas. I have to believe that it isn’t solely due to the fact that I get to eat ham with each of them.
I would guess each of you have your own traditions that make Christmas special for you, whether that involves spending time with your siblings, eating raw fish, or watching “It’s A Wonderful Life” on cable. Whatever makes it extraordinary, I hope you get to relive it again this year.
The next few days will be a blur of excitement, activities and merriment, and before I know it Monday will be here and I’ll be back into my normal routine (albeit with leftover Christmas goodies) and I’ll wonder how another season could pass so quickly.
If you all feel even half as delighted as I do during the holidays then you have an amazing few days ahead of you. Enjoy them to the fullest!
Merry Christmas.

Simply having a wonderful Christmas Time…

2010-12-09T17:10:00.000-06:00

December is here! We have snow…we have holiday music…we have queries from Visa about our increased card activity. The weather outside has been periodically frightful. It must be getting close to Christmas.
The sights, sounds and smells of the holiday season have me at my normal level of mid-December jolliness. The smells part got off to a wonderful start last Friday as Kathy prepared four strips of Danish puff. Unfortunately, my salivary glands were needlessly stimulated as all four went to church for the holiday bazaar.
Any year when my Christmas spirit lies dormant for too long, the Opera House Christmas Show jumpstarts my soul and I become sufficiently stoked. It makes for a long day (I’m usually there for about 13 hours) but I get to hang with my Opera House family all day and get to hear some wonderful musical performances.
The next couple of weeks I’ll spend my time finishing up my shopping and trying to bribe Lindsay into doing my wrapping for me. Then all that is left is to sit back and anticipate.
I won’t keep you long…I know you all are busy this time of year…so I will just leave you with my Top Ten Signs I Know Christmas Time Is Near…
10. I experience increasingly frequent phantom sugar plum sightings.
9. “Just once,” I beg Kathy, “I want you to say to me ‘eat papa, eat…nobody likes a skinny Santa’ when we’re having pizza.”
8. I switch to pine-scented cologne.
7. Begin annual pleading with Kathy to get matching Christmas sweaters.
6. Change all my computer passwords to “Prancer1”.
5. I’ve started the yearly search for new technology to “shake-proof” Kathy’s gifts.
4. Usual profuse sweating is reduced to half with sub-freezing temperatures.
3. Start my annual campaign to get Taco Johns to stop advertising their Nachos Navidad with that awfully repetitious song.
2. I start working on next year’s Christmas gift wish list.
And the number one Top Ten Sign I Know Christmas Time Is Near …
1. Kids point to me in Wal-Mart and say, “Mommy! Look! What happened to Santa?!”
Happy Holidays!

Meat drippings and flour…

2010-11-17T22:19:00.000-06:00

I can hardly hide my giddiness these days. ‘Tis my time of the year. Last weekend I was treated to my first snowfall of the season. Kathy, Lindsay and I were at the home of my brother Clay and his wife Linda in New Hope, where we witnessed the wonder of 10” of fresh snow falling outside their living room picture window. The show was complete with a rush of cardinals, blue jays, woodpeckers and squirrels scrambling for food just on the other side of the glass. There is nothing like a little frozen whiteness to get me in the mood for the holidays.
Of course the holiday season also comes with a full schedule. Starting with last weekend, my dance card is full for seven straight weekends.
Our trip to the Twin Cities last weekend was for the purpose of attending a surprise party for my nephew Chris. It was a big week for Chris. We partied in honor of both his 30th birthday and his brand spanking new engagement to an exemplary young woman named Krista. Congratulations to both of them.
This weekend we will be off to New Ulm, where we will see another nephew, Zack Jensen, who will be starring in the NUHS production of “Hello Dolly” on Friday evening.
Saturday brings the annual Wilmes Family Thanksgiving…this year hosted by my brother Todd and his wife Susan in Sanborn. It marks the much-anticipated beginning of gravy season. Yum. Yes, I’m talking about the steaming hot flow of murky goodness that is absent from my life for most of the year. What a wonderful, versatile topping for virtually everything on the Thanksgiving dinner table, with the possible exception of the pumpkin pie. The smooth, silky, sultry, salty goodness that is ladled copiously on every inch of…um sorry. Moving on…
On Thanksgiving Day our merry band will travel to North Mankato, where the Thomsen family celebration will be hosted by my sister-in-law Cruella and her husband Dave. This is seemingly fitting, as she will soon be returning from a vacation in Turkey. Although, by the looks of the food pictures she has posted over the past couple of days on Facebook, I will be inspecting the main entrée to confirm that it is actually a domestic Butterball. Any signs of mussels and rice with a side of vine leaves and I’m out of there.
The following day will bring a bit of Black Friday madness. Rumor has it there will be some awesome prices on electronics throughout the season. I love electronics.
Okay…one more note about gravy…
One of my favorite Christmas memories was maybe four or five years ago. My yearly ode to gravy in the local newspaper column paid big dividends. “Off the Mark” reader Bev Gylling of Tyler saved and froze leftover gravy from throughout the year and presented it to me at Christmas. How does it get better than leftover gravy…the gift that keeps on giving. That stash of carbo-laden happiness lasted well into February as I recall. Having trouble coming up with gift ideas for me? 1. Electronics 2. DVDs 3. Gravy.
Sorry, sometimes gravy can distract my train of thought.
The festivities will continue into next month. First weekend—Opera House Christmas Show; second weekend—my office Christmas party, followed by a Sunday gathering of some of my family members as we hold a wake in honor of the death of the Vikings season; third weekend Kathy’s office Christmas party; and then of course, the Main Event on the following weekend—Christmas.
New Year’s weekend I’m hoping to sleep.
May each of you have a season resplendent with laughter, covered in gravy and devoid of Turkish goat cheese.
Happy Holidays!

I can finally pare back my verapamil dosage…

2010-11-02T20:27:00.001-05:00

So, now it is okay for politicians to go back to using their inside voices, right? It had gotten to the point where I couldn’t even listen to my WCCO morning gang on the way to work any more (although Mike Lynch has always made that somewhat difficult). Many mornings I had to turn off the radio and ride to work in silence in order to escape the obnoxious political ads. My blood pressure medication can only deal with so much.
In order to prevent angry “outside voice” emails from pouring into my inbox in the days to come, I am forced to keep my opinions to myself in this blog. OK, just one little comment… If you believe the polls, then it should amaze everyone how ridiculously scary a candidate can be and still get votes from Americans. I don’t ever want to hear the phrase, “I vote for the best candidate no matter if they are Democrat or Republican.” That is laughable. Damn, there I went and did it…now I will get accusatory Facebook comments after my blog post…
I guess on the bright side, newspapers and radio/TV stations’ coffers should be funded fairly well for the foreseeable future.
I always think that humans of any nationality, race or religion should err on the side of tolerance. That comment shouldn’t be too controversial, right? That is common sense, right? When I’m being queried by St. Peter at the Pearly Gates, I want to be proud of my answers.
St. Peter – “So, as you know Mark, all people are God’s people, right?”
Mark – “Right.”
St. Peter – “Tell me, how did you treat Muslims? People who weren’t the same color as you? Gays? Jews?
Mark – “Well, for the most part I felt they have all the rights that I have, but it would depend…”
St. Peter – “Depend on what?”
Mark – “Well, if they are Republicans?”
St. Peter – “Mark!”
Mark – “Hah! Pete, lighten up…I’m kidding! Most Republicans are people too!”
St. Peter – “Hey! Your wife was wrong…you ARE funny! Come on in and have some pizza…”
Well, okay, maybe my meds should actually be dialed BACK a bit.
***
Happy Anniversary to Kathy and me on Wednesday.
Nineteen years ago today, November 2nd, 1991, I was out of town when we were supposed to be married. We ended up getting married on November 3rd after I finally escaped the Johnson Motel in Windom after three days during the Halloween “Blizzard of the Century.” Nearly two decades later, I’m still scared to ask if I was worth the wait…blood pressure issues, you know.

Oh yeah—and I hate pink…

2010-10-25T19:35:00.002-05:00

Likes: Glee, The Sound of Music, kitties (and in turn, blogging about kitties), Broadway musicals, sitting and chatting with the girls, Lady Gaga, Facebooking, American Idol, long walks on the beach…well, okay, probably not the last one. Yeah, despite the fact that the average person could read this list and assume it belongs to a female, the list belongs to me. I can’t deny that my tastes lean towards “girlie”.
I don’t hunt and I don’t fish, which you would assume would automatically preclude me from being issued a Minnesota driver’s license.
Exacerbating my situation is the fact that I work in an industry that is filled with manly men. The average person who works in the same building as me is a hard-living, hard-loving, hard-drinking, rough talking, hunting, fishing, football-watching ball of testosterone.
Me? I actually have to go to the doctor every two weeks to get a shot of EXTRA testosterone.
I’m not kidding.
I try not to reveal too many of my feminine tendencies. (Well, except to the dozen people who read my blog.)
The men’s room at the office, in addition to an occasional Cabela’s catalogue, is typically stocked with macho-style reading material of which I have no interest:
The Minnesota Hunting & Trapping Regulations Handbook 2010
Classic Motorcycles “RIDE ‘EM, DON’T HIDE ‘EM”…Special Project Bike Finale!!!
InFisherman Panfish 2010 Guide – “The World’s Foremost Authority on Panfish”…Riprap Crappies!!!
Popular Science – Cyborg Spy Bugs…“Terrifying Science or Innocent Research”
This leads me to ask four questions…
1. How can Cabela’s have absolutely nothing in stock that I would want to purchase?
2. Who knew there was a magazine about panfish?
3. Who knew there was something called a panfish?
4. If I were to bring in my latest copy of Broadway Musical Digest, would it automatically provoke co-workers to “pants” me at the next staff meeting?
As the scary Sharon Angle told Harry Reid in the Nevada debate, maybe I need to “man up” a bit, but I wonder if it is possible at this point in my life.
When I find myself in a room full of men I have to hope they are talking Twins or Vikings.
Beyond that, I try to keep my mouth shut. I would hate to blurt out a question like…say…“what is a panfish?”
After watching Sunday night’s Vikings/Packers game, I can’t guarantee how long I’ll watch football either.
I know a lot more about “Project Runway” than I do “American Chopper.” I would rather watch “Ellen” than “NASCAR This Week.”
I brake for squirrels and I have two tools…a hammer and a screwdriver. I’m not that good with either one.
Now, we are closing in on the holidays. I might shop on Black Friday, and I can’t wait until The Hallmark Channel starts running their Christmas movies.
Ladies, you are invited over the first time they run “A House Without a Christmas Tree.” I’ll whip up a batch of crème brulee.
If there are any doubts about my actual gender, I do have a few guy-like tendencies. I don’t think I have ever cleaned the bathroom since we moved into our house. I can kind of grow a beard.
I like boobs!
Now if I can stay out of any conversations involving panfish at work…
*****
Thanks to everyone for the support over the past couple of weeks after we lost our furry friend, Joe. It is obvious I’m not the only one who gets overly attached to their pets. The scratch on my arm from his final day with us is nearly faded, but still reminds me of him every day. His ghost seems to walk the rooms of our house, at least in my mind. I miss him immensely. I’m glad that periodically I got to share some of his life with some of you.

Saying goodbye to a friend

2010-10-07T22:23:00.004-05:00

I remember thinking two things the day I found out that we were going to have a cat.
1. Oh my God I can’t wait to get him home!
And
2. Kathy got talked into buying a cat?
It was the summer of 2006 and Kathy fell in love with an adorable little kitty in Mankato, as the local animal shelter was holding an adoption event at the local pet store. I immediately was overcome with giddiness. Shortly thereafter, I was emailed a picture (top right, click on it to make it bigger) and I saw The Cat About To Be Named Joe for the first time.
It didn’t take long after he first came home for him to stake out his favorite place to recline. For some reason my computer chair (middle right) became his most favorite spot. He allowed me to use it occasionally, but we all knew it was only because HE was okay with it, and he would get it back when he was ready…if that meant meowing, clawing or squeezing his arm behind my butt and grunting, he would let me know it was time to move.
His second favorite place? On me.
For the first six months he lived with us, I had a series of tiny scratches up and down my right leg. He was so tiny he couldn’t make the leap from floor to the top of Mount Mark in one bound, so as I would sit at the kitchen table with my right leg facing out from the table, he would ascend by digging in and pulling himself up one paw at a time. If I was otherwise occupied, like maybe eating, he would perch on my shoulder, but his preferred location was my vast, spongy chest. He could sit there for hours.
Overnight, it was either my chest or the small of Kathy’s back. He always had to be near us.
As he grew older, he grew a little more hesitant to show us much affection. He always liked being in the room with us whenever possible, but was never much of a lap cat. He still held on to that affinity for my chest however. Eventually, he would only spend any time there when Kathy was not in the room. If she would walk in and catch him, he would jump down immediately. “What?” he seemed to ask. “I wasn’t doing anything.” The six weeks I spent unemployed last year, he was my constant companion. If I didn’t offer my chest, he felt the need to park on my laptop keyboard. It’s hard to send out resumes with what had become a massive 16.5-pound kitty blocking out my screen.
I did eventually get a job again, and he had to do without me during the day. When I came home, however, he always came out to greet me. To be fair, he wasn’t the only person who cared if I was home. Sometimes Lindsay would come out to the kitchen and ask, “What are you doing home so early?” A different kind of caring, but caring nonetheless.
Sometime after his second birthday, we started to notice his front foot pads were swollen and eventually started cracking and bleeding. After many attempts to give him some relief, including some topical potions and oral medication, it was decided he had an auto-immune disorder, and he could get some relief from taking steroids. It may or may not have been a sign of things to come.
Nearly every morning, Joe served as my alarm clock. Whether I wanted to get up or not, he meowed his insistence. I used to think it was just because he was hungry, and no doubt that was part of it, but he didn’t like me going back to bed after he had a snack. He would chow down on whatever I gave him, but before long he would be back meowing at me, poking my nose with his paw or sometimes just sitting inches from my head, staring at me. Many times I would open one eye and see a giant kitty face filling my view. On weekends, once I was up for the day and he was satisfied I was going to be hanging with him, he would catch a few winks himself, curling up on the floor next to me.
He was my buddy, but he was also my confidante. I could complain about my job, my wife, the Vikings…it didn’t matter. He got to hear about it…although he usually looked at me like, “I’m a cat, what do you want me to do about it?”
If you are a regular reader of this blog, you know most of the rest of this story. A couple of months ago, we noticed that Joe appeared to be working a little too hard to breathe. Lots of trips to the vet and many x-rays and shots later, we still don’t know for sure what was attacking our kitty. We did know by looking at the x-rays that his lungs were about half the size they should have been, and probably shrinking. He made it clear to us, however, he did not like going to the vet.
He became more and more inactive in the ensuing weeks and his breathing was more and more labored. Each day he became less interested in eating and drinking. On both Tuesday and Wednesday mornings of this week, my morning buddy came and sat near me in the early morning, but didn’t make a sound. He spent all his energy breathing and apparently meowing was just too much work. Wednesday morning he waited patiently for me to rise, but for the first time ever, he didn’t lead me into the kitchen. It was too hard for a kitty to do when he couldn’t breathe. After about five minutes in the kitchen, he finally came out to see me, but wasn’t interested in the usual routine—weaving back and forth to garner a few pets and some scratches behind the ears. He didn’t want his morning treat—a piece of deli turkey. I left for work with a sick feeling deep in my gut. By noon he would do nothing but lie on his side and gasp for breath. He would lift his head momentarily to look at Kathy, but couldn’t find the energy to move. When I saw Kathy’s I.D. come up on my cell phone shortly after noon, my stomach did a flip-flop. It wasn’t going to be good news. It would be the news I had been dreading for weeks. Kathy’s wavering voice confirmed my fears.
The decision was made that we couldn’t continue to see him suffer. I took the rest of the afternoon off from work and made a blurry drive home. I walked in the house and headed for the bedroom to see my sick friend. When he saw it was me, he stood and jumped off the bed, but that would be it. The action sapped him, and he had to lay back on his side on the floor, mouth open and his sides sucking in with each breath. He couldn’t, as he had done nearly every day of his life, come and let me know he was happy to have me home. He didn’t have to…I knew. For the next two hours, while we waited together for the call from the vet, he was able to lay in one his favorite spots—that little patch of afternoon sun on our bedroom floor. He even got to sleep for awhile and was able to forget that he struggled to breathe.
The call from Mona at the vet’s office finally came and Kathy and I gathered him up to take him to that place he hated so much. If I had to do it all again, it would have been a house call. I made a bad call, and assumed he was too far out of it to care. I was wrong, and will beat myself up for a long time that he spent the last five minutes of his life very frightened. He didn’t seem to care that as I held him, I continued to apologize to him in his right ear.
His struggle is over now, and right now it is hard to see the good in what we did. For over four years, he was my constant buddy—morning, noon and night—and not seeming to care that I was a middle-aged, overweight, somewhat messy, opinionated liberal underachiever. He seldom left my side.
I showed him my appreciation by signing a piece of paper Wednesday afternoon, saying it was OK to take his life.
Yeah, I know, it was the humane thing to do, and I will comprehend that eventually. But not right now.
This morning could only be described as weird. I awoke at Joe’s usual meow time, about 5:30. Out of habit—honed over the past four years—I peeked around my pillow. I could almost feel him there in the room with me, but no luck, it wasn’t just a bad dream.
The turkey was still there in the fridge meat drawer, but I didn’t have a large, chubby kitty butt plant itself between the drawer and the door when I opened it, waiting for a treat. When I spent a little too much time in the bathroom, I didn’t hear any impatient meows coming from outside the door. Nobody jumped up and spun around as if he wasn’t really waiting for me when I finally emerged.
For four years I would complain to people that the reason I was tired because “my cat got me up at 5:30.” I mistakenly thought I was perpetually annoyed by this. I found out this morning, however, I was mistaken.
I spent most of Joe’s life complaining that he liked hanging with me so much he couldn’t wait for me to get up in the morning; whining that he was always under foot when I got home from work because he was excited that his friend was home; expressing my dismay that he would plant himself in front of me, right on my laptop, because he liked being near me. Apparently I just like to complain…although he never seemed to mind that either.
It would be comparable to Britney Spears complaining that people are always telling her she is beautiful. Deep down I loved his attention.
Of course, now I realize I would trade just about anything to have all those burdens back in my life.
Many people tell me that for this very reason—they don’t want to lose them—that they don’t have a pet. Yeah, right now it feels like I don’t need this in my life. But this will eventually fade, and I will remember what a great companion I had, even if the time was too short.
Am I making too big of a deal out of the death of a silly pet? Yeah, probably. There are a lot worse things that go on in this world. I just can’t stop myself.
We miss you Joe, and I’m sorry for a lot, but I’m not sorry we took you into our home.
Thanks for being our good friend.

Did I ever mention the fact that I hate the Yankees?

2010-10-06T13:35:00.000-05:00

I should start by thanking all who came to see “Forever Plaid” over the weekend. We had some amazingly raucous crowds…and yes, a couple of crowds that were a bit sleepy…but overall a great experience. It is nice to have a couple of days off before we kick off our final five shows on Thursday.
We had a nice mix of young and…um…not as young who were in attendance. The young people seemed to enjoy the sheer goofiness of the play. Those older than myself, more often than not, commented on the fact that they were singing along with songs they hadn’t heard since they were teenagers.
Come see for yourself if you get the chance…
If there is a downside to participating in the annual fall play at the Opera House, it is the fact that the Twins are generally in the American League playoffs, and I’m not home watching the games. Most years they have already been eliminated by the time the final show ends. Hopefully this year is different.
Again, they will face the New York Yankees.
Allow me to digress…
Top Five Things I Hate…
1. The New York Yankees
2. Fans of the New York Yankees
3. Yankee Alex Rodriguez
4. The New York Yankees “NY” logo
5. Liver and onions
Maybe this year will be different. Our Twins will have home field advantage. Maybe we can scrape together three wins in five games. If not…I guess we’ll hear more about the Yankees into mid-October.
Of course the bright side of being gone every night is the fact that I don’t have to listen to the disgusting practice of paid political ads. I beg you all to NOT BASE YOUR VOTING DECISIONS ON POLITICAL ADS!!! I personally turn them off or mute the sound when they come on. I don’t care who is running the ad. A large number of these ads, at best, distort the facts and deliberately try to be misleading about their opponents past actions. You will actually learn more by checking out WCCO TV’s Pat Kessler and his “Reality Check” during the evening newscast. You can check out past pieces by going to http://wcco.com/realitycheck. I can’t believe there isn’t a law against some of these practices. Of course, the practice continues after they are elected, so we shouldn’t be surprised.
Just ask our Kenya-born Muslim/Nazi/Racist President. Here’s my own “reality check”: He was born in Hawaii, he is a Christian (not that it should make a difference if he wasn’t), he is certainly not a racist, and to call him a Nazi is disgusting.
I guess at least they haven’t called him a Yankee.

Not too impressed with 2010…so far

2010-09-14T22:26:00.002-05:00

Ah, my favorite season seems to be fast approaching. The sultry, soupy air that hung over us for the past couple of months has finally been pushed south, and my favorite Canadian export—the cool air mass—has mercifully settled in. As The Year of Mowing Lawn finally moves into its final stages, I will look back upon the summer as one of my least favorite ever. Even the ridiculous amount of fun I had directing “Chicago” at the Opera House can’t save Summer 2010 from the notoriety of being one of my bottom five in my life.
A few facts to back up my glum review:
- I somehow picked up a nasty chest cold on the weekend of the Fourth, and wasn’t able to rid myself of my cough until about two weeks ago.
- I live in a country where the intolerance of others who are not like us has apparently become the norm.
- My cat, (and good buddy) Joe got sick. It appears he won’t see his fifth birthday.
- A former associate has robbed us of thousands of dollars and so far our legal system has allowed them to get away with it.
- Did I mention that the lawn wouldn’t stop growing?
Of course, despite the downers, I continue to try to find a silver lining. For instance, after cutting the grass on Sunday we discovered that our picnic table hadn’t been stolen after all.
To my benefit, many have conspired to bring spates of mirth into my daily life.
The Twins continue their march to another post season appearance. They are even within the grasp of owning the best record in the major leagues.
Accepting her final award of the VMAs Sunday evening, Lady Gaga wore meat onto the stage. How can that not uplift someone from a lousy mood? I LOVE meat.
Sarah Palin, Newt Gingrich and Michele Bachmann continue to speak in public. (Even Republicans must let a grin escape occasionally…come on, admit it.)
And I again I find myself working on another Opera House show—with three gentlemen who regularly make me laugh…sometimes even intentionally.
I figure I have a little over three months to save the year from being a complete loss…so here goes:
My Top Ten Other Reasons To Laugh in 2010…
10. The fact that at least 3-4 times a day someone sees me for the first time without facial hair and with varying degrees of success, attempt to stifle audible chortling, bringing me an endless source of jocularity.
9. Texas swept the Yankees over the weekend. AHAHAHAHAHAHA!
8. The Gopher football team.
7. The mustache on that wacko “minister” guy in Florida.
6. Justin Bieber’s hair.
5. Glee starts soon! (Yes, I am akin to a 14-year-old girl.)
4. The mustache on Twins pitcher Carl Pavano. (I’m beginning to think there are people who should follow my clean-shaven lead.)
3. Anything Brett Favre said in August. :)
2. Watching me during choreography rehearsals for “Forever Plaid.”
And the Number One Other Reason To Laugh in 2010…
1. Only 3-1/2 months until 2011!

Say it ain’t so, Joe…
As I mentioned above, our favorite kitty isn’t doing so well. While we weren’t able to pinpoint what is ailing him, but we were able to narrow it to a handful of things that it could be…none of which have a happy ending. Thanks to Drs. Loren and Roxane for their special treatment of Joe and all the time they spent looking and hoping for a cure.
His labored breathing is very hard to watch. Unfortunately, all we can do now is decide when he is no longer enjoying life enough for him to continue the struggle.
He still lies in the sun and sleeps a lot…what kitty doesn’t enjoy that? He still comes to greet me when I come home from work, strategically arching his butt to the perfect position to get a bit of a scratch above the tail. He still comes to get me up at 5:30 a.m. so I can hang out with him for a bit before I go to the office. He still, on occasion, parks himself in front of the refrigerator and paws at the door, letting me know (in case I forgot) where that package of yummy Oscar Mayer Deli Oven Roasted Turkey Breast is located, from which he loves to partake of an occasional treat.
He has gone from being a robust 16.5 pounds down to less than 12 now. His breathing is never good, but if he takes it easy (not too difficult for any kitty) it isn’t quite as pronounced. He doesn’t eat like he should, but he likes it when Kathy spoils him a bit by getting down on the floor and holding the bowl, or better yet, a freshly-opened can of Fancy Feast. He seems to like the bonding.
For now, the best we can do for him is to dote on him when we can and enjoy the time he has left with us. Even if it means getting up before the sun.

My apologies to Drew Carey…

2010-08-30T21:17:00.002-05:00

It seems that I have inadvertently inflicted plentiful amounts of mirth upon those around me this weekend. Lots of snickers and snarky comments have been directed at me…and this all from just within my own home. For only the second time in 35 years, I removed all my facial hair. My cat even did a double take.
The reason for inflicting the sight of my entire face on my loved(?) ones was picture day for the fall play at the Opera House. The play is about four clean-cut gentlemen from the early 1960s, and so the three of us members of the cast with goatees “took one for the team” and shaved off our rugged manliness. I’ve heard rumblings that John and Tim are also taking a bit of heat on the home front for their naked chins.
Some of the early electronic publicity went out last night by email and on Facebook. The combination of the barren face and the horn-rimmed glasses I wear in the publicity shots have drawn comparisons to the visage of Drew Carey. The people making these comparisons are kind enough not to add…“a larger, more out-of-shape, older Drew Carey.”
I did the dirty deed Sunday morning. You can imagine my surprise when, during the process, it became more and more apparent that I had discovered a third chin. In addition, the whisker removal left a mysterious red patch on the left side. I had either inflicted a nasty razor burn, or it was evidence that something had taken up residence in my mustache over the past three and a half decades.
As I mentioned, this is the second time since high school that I went crazy with my razor. The last time was three or four years ago. After three or four days of ridicule from my wife and kid, I scrapped the project and grew it back. This time, when Lindsay saw me, an actual audible gasp escaped her mouth…followed by “oh my God,” and then hysterical laughter. Very subtle.
Reaction from outside my home has been all over the place. Anywhere from “oh my, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you without facial hair,” to an obvious discomfort. They will talk to me while continually trying to pull their gaze from my chin and pretend not to notice. A couple of them welled up with tears, turned, and ran.
Since “Forever Plaid” won’t close until October 10th, my facial nudity will be hanging around for awhile. I encourage you, if you run into me, to avert your eyes…if you can. It is hard to do. I also think that probably looking at me through smoked glass helps.
In the meantime, I’ll try to put you all at ease by saying I don’t mind the laughs…or the gasps either for that matter.
And on the bright side, maybe it will give me a chance to clear up whatever that red patch is above my lip.
*****
My good friend and favorite kitty continues to fight his health issues. Joe is nearly back to his old self, eating and drinking and waking me up in the mornings, but he still struggles to breathe and it is hard to watch. We are working with Drs. Johnson and Nielsen to try to make the fluid in his chest cavity go away. The x-rays are depressing, seeing that mass of fluid taking up the space where his lungs are supposed to be. Despite his quick short gasps of breath, he has been a brave young trooper, handling the situation with a great disposition. I hope he is rewarded with a happy ending.

Yes Noelle, I’m blogging about my cat…

2010-08-19T20:44:00.002-05:00

A few random ramblings this week…
First, thanks to all who came to see “Chicago” at the Opera House and of course to all who were involved. It was the 25th play I’ve directed at the theater, and my favorite so far. Plays--for directors--are kind of like children. You love them all. This “child,” however, caused me less stress than all that came before. The kid that was “High School Musical” a couple of years ago, on the other hand, nearly had me considering alcoholism as a life choice.
Much of the responsibility for staving off hypertension this summer was due to the extraordinary talent of the cast, top to bottom. The fact that we had a remarkable orchestra making those jazzy 1920s songs come alive was a bonus.
The remainder of the responsibility for my low stress level can be directly traced to a handful of people who pitched in and helped in a number of areas: Greg and Carol Mensen, Curt Madsen, Lynn Carpenter, Kathy Johnson and Stacey Voit. They participated in a lot of the heavy lifting involved in the weeks leading up to Opening Night. I can't possibly thank them enough…
*****
Kathy, Lindsay and I, along with some good friends, took a Southwest Tours bus to the Twin Cities on Saturday to the Orpheum Theater. We were able to see a remarkable traveling Broadway production of “Wicked,” a show that is billed as a prequel to “The Wizard of Oz.” It is the story that tells of Glinda the Good Witch and the Wicked Witch of the West before the tornado. I’ve always loved the soundtrack and now I finally was able to see the play. It was amazing in both performance and special effects. It was a production that could not even be spoiled by the 700 steps I climbed to get to my seat and the seven inches of legroom in front of my seat.
*****
We are awfully worried about our favorite kitty in the Wilmes house. The life of my cat, Joe, has been well-documented in newspaper column and blog over the past few years. He has struggled his entire life with an auto-immune issue that causes the pads on his front paws to swell. This has required us to mix prednisone in his food over the past many months…nasty tasting stuff.
Apparently that isn’t enough hardship in his life.
In recent days, Kathy and I noticed his breathing had started to become labored. Just relaxing, he would breath in short rapid gasps. After a 2-1/2 hour trip to the vet on Wednesday, we still aren’t sure of the cause. X-rays revealed that his lungs are collapsing and his chest is filled with fluid. So filled, in fact, that the fluid cloaked his heart from the x-rays. I now am charged with giving him twice daily shots to try to clear up the fluid enough to be able to see his heart. A blood test revealed elevated enzyme levels in his kidneys, but we aren’t sure if that is due to the fluid issue or the other way around.
It is amazing how a silly pet can become such a part of your lives. I worry about him nearly as much as any human member of my family and I can hardly push my worry over his health far from my thoughts these days. Hang in there, Joe…
*****
After more than a six-year absence, I am returning to the stage this fall. I opted out of directing the fall play so I could get a short break and actually spend some time at home. So what did I do? I hired a director who proceeded to talk me into actually being in the play. Yeah, I’m not all that smart.
So…opening on September 30th at the Opera House will be “Forever Plaid.” I’ll be playing the part of Jinx. On the bright side, I’ll be able to prove my theory that after 50 years old, you can’t memorize anything longer than a phone number. Yikes.

Just when you thought I forgot about you…

2010-08-04T18:08:00.002-05:00

Hello everyone. Yes, it has been awhile since you have heard from me…and I should warn you that this could rapidly deteriorate in to a whiny blog. A “whog” if you will.
First, however, I will start with the positive. The reason I haven’t been wasting my time sitting around at home blogging (or whogging) is about to come to a close. I have spent most of my evenings with a delightful group of people who came together back at the beginning of June with a single goal—bringing the musical “Chicago” to the stage of the Lake Benton Opera House. Yes, for the past 16-17 years I have given in to my girlie-man propensity for getting involved in Community Theater. This year was no different.
As a director it is hard to pick favorite plays I’ve done over the years…each had different qualities. Each year I have expended a blog or a newspaper column telling you reasons you should come and see the show. This year I will make a statement that I’ve never made before…this is the best show I’ve ever directed. I should qualify that pronouncement with the following disclaimer, however: The reasons that this is the best show I’ve ever directed do not include anything I have done. It was just my good fortune to draw a cast, crew and orchestra that came together to create a remarkable final product.
From the biggest parts played by Audrey Bloemendaal, Ashley Vogt, Adam Madsen, Brad Nupen and Sara Vogt to the smallest parts played by Amy Wyatt, Brock Nelson, Carrie Schwing, Alan Riedel and Sandy Hanson, I was the beneficiary of top notch performances. I am always impressed when an actor with a bit part will do everything in his or her powers to make their own 90 seconds of stage time memorable.
The choreography created by Ms. Bloemendaal (pictured [l.] with Ashley Vogt [r.])is wonderful. That she pulled it off while playing one of the lead characters is just short of freakish.
When Stacey Voit of Ghent agreed to participate I knew we would have a splendid orchestra, and I again was not disappointed.
We still have six performances…Aug. 4-7 there will be shows at 7:30 PM…Aug. 7-8 there will be shows at 2:00 PM. That Saturday show, incidentally, is our Senior Citizens special, with tickets reduced for seniors by $2.50, to $10.00.
Don’t go anywhere just yet…I still have my special whining portion…
Each year the summer musical takes up a lot of my time, but the satisfaction I receive in return more than makes up for the busyness. It is when the Big Guy decides he needs to throw me a few curves that things get difficult.
“Let’s see, how can we mess with Mark this year?”
In past years most of my undue stress was provided by my career as a newspaper editor. Naturally, since my Great Emancipation from the newspaper business over a year ago, something else had to take over in the “messin’ with me” department. This year it was my first-ever summer cold. Somehow, on July 3rd, I came down with some chest cold issues. Three types of medication and an inhaler later, I’m still fighting with the cough. There was a stretch of 60 hours last week where I got a grand total of about three hours of sleep. It was timed perfectly with the days leading up to opening night. To say that I was in a fog is an understatement.
I’m now on the inhaler, as well as prednisone, which coincidentally is the same stuff we have to give our cat, Joe for his odd affliction of being allergic to himself. I now know why he doesn’t really appreciate the taste of his food on the mornings we mix in one of his little steroid pills. I can’t get mine swallowed fast enough to keep the nasty taste out of my mouth.
It will be worth it if it helps. I really hope to one day again be able to sleep lying down. In addition, I’m very close to being voted out of the house and into the garage at night by my frustrated family.
So it has been a difficult run this year. Add in a Relay for Life event in July, and enough rain to give my lawn a lush quality that begs to be mowed every four days and my life is full. I would guess if I were to get creative, most of this stuff could be blamed on the Obama administration.
Or maybe BP.
The lawn got so out-of-hand before the end of the week last week that one of our neighbors graciously mowed it for me. He said to consider it his donation to the arts. Thanks Rick…
Oh…one more whine…does anyone else feel like they are breathing pudding when they step outside?
OK, thanks for letting me get that out of my system.
“How else can I, a reader of Mark’s blog help lift his spirits?” you ask.
Come see the show. I will absolutely assure you that you will enjoy the performance, and in the process, you will make a small donation to the Opera House that will help keep it healthy and a contributor to the quality of our life here in southwestern Minnesota.
Need more convincing? You can check out the pictures and a video on the Opera House Facebook page at www.facebook.com/lakebentonoperahouse. You do not have to be a Facebook member to see it.

In the throes of my third most favorite season…

2010-06-26T10:30:00.000-05:00

I used to like summer a lot better. I’m almost sure of it. I would guess that it has something to do with my formative years. Risking the danger of oversimplifying…summer was ingrained into my consciousness as “those three months that I got to go outside and play.”
In those halcyon days it meant school was out. That was the catalyst that would lead to 90 days of unfettered adventure.
For many years after high school graduation the memories of those years were so ingrained into my being that I would experience a heightened sense of euphoria each May in anticipation of June. Unfortunately, June would arrive and I was left with a heightened sense of, “um…I got excited about this?”
I eventually evolved past the giddiness in May and now when June arrives, I’m just left with a heightened sense of the current relative humidity.
If it weren’t for wind chill, summer would be in danger of slipping to my fourth favorite season.
Here are the realities…
Back then…
I was constantly mowing lawns of Russell residents in order to make lots of money to blow at Ike’s Recreation and the Rainbow Café.
Now…
I am constantly mowing lawn.
Back then…
My life revolved around Little League baseball games…win or lose.
Now…
I CAN’T BELIEVE THE TWINS LOST THREE STRAIGHT TO THE MILWAUKEE FREAKING BREWERS!
Back then…
I loved walking the trails in the hills at the Russell Park.
Now…
When I get my car serviced I have to walk to DeBoers to pick it up when it’s done.
Back then…
Clarence and Harlan and I used to spend half of the summer nights sleeping in a tent in our backyard.
Now…
Yeah, that’s not gonna happen.
Back then…
My friends and I would load up the station wagon and go to a double feature at the Starlight Drive-Inn in Marshall.
Now…
I try to stay awake through a double feature of the weather and the sports.
Back then…
I would get to sleep in until 8:00 every morning.
Now…
If I’m not up by 5:45, the cat is checking my vital signs.
Back then…
We would be so busy entertaining ourselves in and around Russell we would sometimes forget to come home for supper.
Now…
Yeah, I have fixed that issue.

So you can understand why summer has lost some of its luster for me. School never gets out anymore.
I still have a couple of bright spots during the summer. I get to spend a few weeks hanging with some of my favorite people at the Opera House; I get to eat some Aebleskivers in July; and there is that whole grilled burger thing.
Oh, and some years my lawn goes dormant in early August.
For the most part though I’m just biding my time until late September when the air turns cool and the leaves turn yellow.
And admittedly, next January when I’m standing at a gas pump with the temp at zero and the wind at about 35, I’ll remember why summer still has a tenuous hold on third place.

A case of the blind hanging the blinds

2010-06-16T21:52:00.001-05:00

Yes, I am indeed still alive, despite what my blogging silence may have indicated.
It’s been a busy couple of weeks with Opera House tryouts for “Chicago” and the ensuing casting and rehearsal preparations. Rehearsals began Sunday evening and I’m thrilled with the quality of the cast. If anyone out there would like to join us, we are still looking for a few people who would like to dance in some of the group numbers…male or female. It is a great opportunity to be in one of the most successful musicals of all time, while making a few friendships that could very well last a lifetime. If not you, maybe you know of someone????
Outside the glitter of show business, some of our time at the Wilmes household over the past few weeks has been tied up in a home improvement project. By “some of our time,” of course I mean “way too much time.”
My lack of handyman skills has been well-documented over the years. I never did inherit my dad’s ability to fix stuff. If it can’t be duct taped, I’m probably screwed. Of course duct taping the new blinds in place wasn’t good enough for my fussy wife…even if I COULD have found matching white duct tape.
That left us with only one option: screws.
Unfortunately, we found out early in the project that the screws that came with these top-of-the-line blinds are made of something that approaches Play-Doh in terms of durability. My “stand back and let me handle this” machismo was soon quashed as I ruined the first five screws, either by stripping the wimpy Phillips grooves with the cordless drill or by snapping them in two.
While I have no doubt that Kathy was thinking I am a moron and the screw snafu was my fault, we found the job started going much smoother once we scrounged our drawers for higher quality screws. Of course, I was stripped of my cordless drill and with a “just get out of the way and let me do this” attitude, Kathy took over with a manual screwdriver. This was just as – I’m still convinced – the cordless drill would have worked just fine following the screw upgrade.
In an attempt to make the task even easier, we made the decision to drill holes in the window frame before attempting to install the bracket screws. The instructions recommended a 1/16” drill bit. Before the end of our first day of the project, I had snapped off two borrowed bits for which we would need to purchase replacements.
After upsizing to the 5/64 bit, things went a bit smoother. In the end, however, the project, from purchase to final installation was about two weeks in duration. We ended up installing nine sets of blinds. This required Kathy to manually screw in precisely 63 screws, giving her a right arm that is nearly Schwarzenegger-esque in girth. I think she may now be a bit “bustier” on the right side also.
The project took a lot longer than we expected. Certainly longer than the manufacturer’s claim on the outside of the box of “15-minute installation.”
We were duped.
What next? Well I’m now on to my next big project…trying to mow a lawn that has been wet for 10 days and has grown to astounding heights. I’m hoping to be done by Sunday.
Oh, and you won’t see Kathy for awhile. She hit the road in pursuit of the National Women’s Arm Wrestling Championship.
I think I’ll wait until she gets back to put up those new shutters on the outside of the house.
Should take her about 10 minutes…

Two decades of living with me finally having an effect…

2010-05-26T17:55:00.000-05:00

I would like to start by confessing that what started out as a weekly blog has become somewhat sporadic. It probably will continue to be somewhat random in its regularity in the coming weeks with another big show starting up at the Opera House (****“Chicago” opens July 29th and runs through August 8th! Call 507-368-4620 for reservations!****). For those of you who actually read this stuff…thanks for your patience.
After several weeks of the last Opera House show and some major photography projects, Kathy and I have been trying to catch up on “our shows” that have been collecting on videotape over the past couple of months. We have five or six hour-long shows we can’t live without each week, as well as another five or six half-hour sitcoms.
As of late last week, we had a backlog of about 32 hours of TV shows awaiting us on VHS tapes. Imagine the surprise (not to mention unbridled admiration) that I felt towards my antsy wife when we slogged through nearly half of that over the weekend. When you consider we also got the lawn mowed, the house cleaned, the groceries bought, a grad party attended and went to the RTR spring play, the accomplishment is that much more remarkable.
It was almost like a bachelor weekend, except the dishes had to be washed regularly.
A couple of times during the weekend I had to talk myself down from a hyper-euphoric state, briefly imagining that after 18-½ years of marriage, she might finally be turning into me. I took the more sensible route—not allowing myself to get prematurely exhilarated and set myself up for an impending letdown. I was encouraged, however, and will be monitoring her behaviors closely.
That being said, here are my Top Ten Signs To Watch For That Could Be A Hint Kathy Might Finally Be Turning Into Me…
10. Hearing the comment “yeah, Mark, I’ve been thinking we should put off replacing the carpet and get a bigger TV.”
9. If I were to notice butter pooling on her toast in the morning.
8. She’s wearing a t-shirt—“Vegetables Suck.”
7. I catch her dialing down the thermostat.
6. The cat starts spending more time with her.
5. If I were to notice butter pooling on the front of her shirt.
4. I walk in the house after work and she shouts, “ROAD TRIP! DVD SALE AT TARGET!”
3. She finally admits my theory is correct…you don’t need to vacuum until you can visibly notice chunks.
2. She starts to like Charlize Theron.
And the number one Sign To Watch For That Could Be A Hint Kathy Might Finally Be Turning Into Me…
1. She starts to laugh as hard at my own witty comments as I do…

No thanks, I like where I’m at…

2010-05-15T10:20:00.000-05:00

No thanks. I’m still not interested in buying a newspaper. As I tell everyone who is kind enough to ask, my favorite thing I’ve ever done in my life was put out a newspaper every week. It was also the most difficult. The lifestyle seizes all your waking hours, and you don’t realize to what extent until you have been able to step back from it for awhile.
Our current Lincoln County newspaper situation is a bit volatile. I hope for the sake of the area residents that something gets resolved. I’m confident that it will.
One thing about old newspaper columnists, we always like to give our opinion on subjects, whether people want to hear those opinions or not. That being said, here are a few of my thoughts about a small town newspaper…
• One of the most important features of your local newspaper is the public forum. It is supposed to be the voice of the people. Readers should be able to express their opinions—positive and negative—without being censored or ignored. Even if you are criticizing the newspaper or the guy who decides what goes on the opinion page. In my days as a newspaper editor, I never kept a letter that was bashing me or my opinions from my readers. The subscribers were always well aware of my opinions, they deserved to hear the other side and formulate their own judgment on the subject at hand. There are exceptions to the rule when bashing others to keep the paper protected from libel…but nothing was off limits when voicing your displeasure with yours truly. The newspaper business is not for the thin-skinned. If you can’t take criticism don’t take the job.
• I’ve always felt it was a conflict of interest for me to hold public office while covering that same body. Your job as a local publisher and editor, in part, is to be a watchdog for the people. It is too tempting to be less than transparent when you control what the people read.
• Don’t take yourself too seriously. Have a sense of humor and know when it is appropriate to let it show on the pages of your newspaper.
• A newspaper survives on its advertising revenue, and it takes a large amount of that revenue to collect all the news and photographs each week, lay them out in an easy-to-read format, have them printed and deliver them to your doorstep. A very large amount. And if you think for a moment that any of the fine people who do this for you each week are overpaid, you are sadly mistaken.
• It is impossible to cover, or even know about, everything that happens in your town. If you want your newspaper to know about the tree planting in honor of the 1958 Arco High School Glee Club at 8:00 Sunday morning, call the newspaper office and tell them. Better yet, go to the event yourself, take a picture, and submit it with the event information. They will be happy to print it, but at least give them Sunday mornings off when possible.
• Everyone makes mistakes. With hundreds of bits of information coming into the newspaper office each week, once in awhile your paper is going to miss printing the blurb announcing the semi-annual meeting of the Petunia Club. It does no good to yell into your phone on Wednesday morning. They didn’t leave it out on purpose.
Okay, I admit I certainly SOUND like someone planning on getting back into the newspaper business, but rest assured the answer is still no. I’ll stick to this blogging thing. It doesn’t pay very well, but weekly submission is optional. I’ve been doing this for a year, and although it is always possible, so far nobody has called and yelled in my ear.
And next week I’ll be back to give more of my unsolicited opinions…or not. Why didn’t I think of this blogging thing years ago?

Happy Mother’s Day to me

2010-05-06T21:20:00.002-05:00

Happy Mother’s Day to all of you moms this weekend. Myself and a couple of my siblings will be partaking in a Mother’s Day buffet on Sunday with Mom, so actually I too will be the beneficiary in the form of five different meats and all the gravy I can eat. In actuality, I am the incidental recipient of a Mother’s Day gift each year, as Kathy, Lindsay and Kathy’s sisters do a girls weekend that started years ago. That leaves me and my feline friend Joe (pictured) as kings of the castle. I’ve been busting my proverbial hump all week in an attempt to get all my extracurricular work done before the womenfolk leave on Friday afternoon.
I probably shouldn’t get this excited over being home semi-alone, but I can’t help myself. About 3-4 weekends per year I am left to explore those white trash instincts I work so hard to repress the rest of the year. With more than a little effort, Joe and I usually snap out of our haze soon enough so we aren’t discovered on Sunday night dozing next to a pile of pizza boxes and Little Friskies cans.
I really don’t understand the mesmerizing appeal that overtakes me when I’m left to fend for myself. I mean, it’s not like I can’t kick back and watch a movie or two when Kathy is home. I just can’t seem to stifle years of pent up Lutheran guilt that comes with lifting my feet when she is vacuuming. It doesn’t matter if I’ve worked for 36 consecutive hours preceding…if she is working I feel I have to be working. Unfortunately, Kathy is clueless when it comes to kicking back and being irresponsible. She has a lot she could learn from me in that area.
In the end, I figure as long as the house looks no worse when she returns as it did when she left. I’m covered.
About 10 minutes after she pulls out of the driveway on Friday, Joe will start bugging me to take a nap. My eyelids will indeed start to droop, and I’ll drag myself to the bedroom. Joe knows the routine (even though a nap rarely presents itself), and two or three minutes later, I’ll feel a paw poking me in the back, notifying me that I need to lift up the fuzzy blanket behind me so he can crawl under.
Once we are settled, I gradually slip into a semi-conscious state, and towards snoozeville I drift—ever so slowly…slowly…slowly, until at last…Wells Fargo calls to see if I would like extra insurance on my debit card purchases.
This type of thing doesn’t seem to affect Joe’s nap, but it generally ruins any chance of me getting to sleep. So I tiptoe (yeah, right) out of the bedroom and slip in a movie. The nap finally arrives about 45 minutes in…pushing “pause” during the last moments of consciousness.
This routine will be repeated several times throughout the weekend.
Late on Sunday I’ll sit by the window and watch for them, and when I finally see the Grand Am rounding the corner, I’ll bound out the front door and down the drive…um…okay I’ll shake off the sleep and pretend I’m fixing the vacuum cleaner.
I cherish my alone time, but it is always good to have the rest of the family return eventually.
We all know that a Lutheran can only stand so much happiness...

Hi from Father Harry

2010-04-24T12:11:00.002-05:00

You know, technology continues to amaze me. It's is probably due in part because I'm old. We used to have to get up off the couch to change between our two TV channels when I was a kid. Now we're expend the time an energy to search for the remote for 15 minutes so we don't have to get up to change the channel.
When we wanted to correspond with someone who didn't live with us, we had to hand write a letter, lick the envelope to seal it, and even lick the back of the stamp to mail the letter. After posting my blog late Thursday evening, I awoke about six hours later and I already had a response from Ireland in my email inbox!
Just thought I would post an extra blog this week to share greetings from Father Harry...
Dear Mark,
Thanks for all the kind words in your present article.
You do realize that you'll get me in trouble with Pope Benie with your good Lutheran praise!
Recently, we, living on an island, became isolated because of the close-down of airports due to the volcanic eruption in Iceland.
Iceland has been in the news because the nation owed billions to the Netherlands and United Kingdom. They held a plebesite and voted not to repay it. What is not universally known is that there is no 'C' in the Iceleandic language, So the lenders were not repaid in cash but ash! Bottom of the barrel joke!
Love to Kathy and all the folks we know.
Fr. Harry

Greetings from Ireland

2010-04-22T22:38:00.000-05:00

I am absolutely in heaven these days. It does not get better than sunny and mid-60s. It seems like most years we have 40s for six weeks, then mid-60s for two and a half days, then 85 and humid. This year, however, pure grilling-burgers-in-the-back-yard-while-swilling-Diet-Dew weather. Now, if I were just home long enough to mow my lawn. Most of it is a shaggy three-to-four inches, but there is that area around the end of my sump pump hose that is tall enough to hide small children.
If you hear any of my neighbors complaining, tell them I’ll try to get to it Monday…if my mower starts...and if I can shoo those kids out of hiding.
I just wanted to check in with another short and sweet blog this week. I did want to give a shout out to an old friend of mine. Kathy and I got a card this week from a reader who qualifies me to say that my blog is read internationally. Outside of my mom, probably the biggest fan of my old newspaper column since I met him…we got a nice note from Father Harry Behan over in Ireland, my all-time favorite priest. I don’t know how high of praise that is coming from a Lutheran…but it is from the heart.
For those of you who don’t know Father Harry…and I can’t believe there are many of you in the area…he served the Catholic churches in Tyler and Lake Benton for many years. Long ago he started urging me to write my first book, with a promise he would buy the first 50 copies. If that ever happens, he will be offered the opportunity to write the foreward. That, because he also tops another of my lists…funniest Catholic. (Okay, I realize that bar isn’t set too high.)
I heard from Father Harry not too long after I was run out of the newspaper business, telling me he regretted not being able to read my stuff any more. Fortunately, I tracked down an email address from Tony Schwing over in Lake Benton and was able to send him a link to my blog.
The card I received from him last week included a nice compliment about my blog and a mention that he will be spending some time in the U.S. in the near future. Also included was my first ever dividend after a year of blogging. He included a check to treat Kathy and me to a “beer and a brat at the new Target Field.”
So this week’s blog is solely to say thanks to an old friend (I’m sure he would have a comment about me repeatedly referring to him as old) and to say “we miss you.”
And when Kathy and I finally get to Target Field for our first game, you can be sure we will get a picture of us at the game. We’ll be the fans holding a plump, juicy sausage and a cup of Budweiser…compliments of the funniest Catholic I know.
*****
Hey! One more weekend for “Last of the Red Hot Lovers” at the Opera House. This show is a hoot…come on down.

I’m not complaining, okay?

2010-04-15T17:15:00.002-05:00

Okay, yeah I know…I’ve been a bit of a slacker when it comes to blogging as of late. I’ve been trying to become a better fellow human being by not whining about how busy I am. It’s kind of like being a crack addict, however, and the temptation is always there… But hey! I’m only telling you this to explain why you haven’t been privy to any lackluster updates on my life here on my blog spot. I haven’t been home except to sleep since about mid-March.
I’m just saying, okay?
In addition, what is left of my spare time I spend answering questions from Hendricks, Lake Benton and Tyler residents on what is happening with the local newspaper, and is it true that I bought the papers. (It is not true.)
Anyway, the reason for my absenteeism over the past few weeks opens Friday night at the Lake Benton Opera House—Neil Simon’s “Last of the Red Hot Lovers.” If you get a chance, come on down for a couple hours of pretty darn good comedy. You don’t even have to get up from your comfy computer chair…you can order tickets by emailing lakebentonoperahouse@gmail.com. Serving up some great comedy will be Stu Melby of Brookings, Dorothy Darveaux of Pipestone, Beth Reams of Brookings and Nancy Stuefen of Volga. (Stu and Beth are pictured.)
Opening night is always a great night—it is when the work ends and the fun begins. I can no longer do any more damage to the production as the director, and unless I agree to something stupid, I’ll be home on Sunday night!!!
I should point out that due to the fact I won’t be home until Sunday, ***this blog has not been proofed by Kathy to make sure I don’t look like an idiot--any typos, grammatical errors or dangling participles are strictly due to my own ineptitude.***
And don’t tell me you haven’t dangled a few of your own in your life…
Talk to you next week…I hope.

Happiness is having friends who give you money

2010-04-01T23:07:00.001-05:00

Yikes! That was a nasty run of being gone about 75 consecutive nights…but as of Thursday night when I sat down to start banging out a column, I was staring down the barrel of a glorious three-day weekend. The countdown to Easter dinner has begun.
Thanks to those of you who either participated in or attended the “Broadway Meets Lake Benton” show on Saturday. It makes for a bloated schedule when I am not smart enough to know that I shouldn’t get involved in two Opera House shows simultaneously. When all is said and done, however, I am thrilled I got to spend some time with a few people with whom I love hanging out.
With performing in “Broadway” behind me and directing “Last of the Red Hot Lovers” ongoing, I continue to fill up my evenings spending time with some of these fine people.
Good friends recently have improved my financial outlook for the near future. I have about 20 good friends who next week I’m hoping will reward me for my NCAA picks. Somehow, after Kansas, Kentucky and a host of others ravaged my brackets, I’m tied for second place in the annual pool, with a shot at being in the money. Now if Duke would just win on Saturday and lose on Monday…
I have another dozen or so friends at the office who also are looking at coming up with a bit of cash for me. Back in February, I got in a pool with my co-workers to predict the date that the gigantic snow pile on the north side of our building would be completely melted. I should be counting that bundle about mid-week next week…what great friends I have.
Mom always said, “the only thing better than friends are friends who give you cash.” Well, maybe that wasn’t Mom…it might have been Uncle Maynard.
I get another bonus next week, when I start spending some time with 25 guys I consider my friends because the Minnesota Twins open their 2010 season at the sparkling new Target Field. I’m nearly giddy with excitement.
And speaking of friends with cash, Joe Mauer certainly wouldn’t miss some of his. As a matter of fact, I would marry the guy if he asked me…and, I guess, if we lived in Iowa where that kind of thing is legal. I’ve heard tales of his man-cave Up North that gives me goose bumps. Maybe he needs a man-cave sitter while he is on those long road trips. I wouldn’t charge much.
Here’s wishing you all a Happy Easter this weekend. Have a great time with your families and friends.
If you can, come see “Last of the Red Hot Lovers” at the Opera House. It opens on April 16th with six shows over two weekends. You’ll get to meet some of those friends I’ve been bragging about and get a hint of why I like spending so much time with them.
Now I could just get them to throw in a few bucks and guess when we will have our first 80-degree day in Lincoln County. I’m on a roll…
And Uncle Maynard is smiling down on me…

It’s a bird…it’s a plane…it’s…the sun?

2010-03-18T20:48:00.001-05:00

It is amazing how much happier everyone seems when the fog dissipates and the sun comes out. That was a long stretch of drear we endured here in the southwestern corner of our great state. I was in the Twin Cities for an Adobe InDesign seminar Wednesday, where it was a sunny 62 degrees. Unfortunately I spent eight hours in a windowless conference room at the downtown Marriott in Minneapolis. The good news is that I emerged smarter than I was when I entered…although that bar isn’t set too high.
I am so struck by the nice weather I can even foresee myself summer-izing and stowing my snow blower this weekend…without fear of jinxing us into a relapse.
Another month or so and Kathy and I can pull out our lawn chairs and watch to see if last fall’s front yard grass seeding worked!
Spring is one of two reasons I absolutely love living in Minnesota.
The other, of course, would be Michele Bachmann. (rimshot…cymbal splash…thanks, I’ll be here all week.)
Actually I like autumn even better, but that is easy to forget when I am in the throes of the vernal equinox here in the Northern Hemisphere. Those of you who know me wouldn’t be surprised, I suppose, to hear that my third favorite season is winter.
Without further ado, however…you knew it would be coming…here are my Top Ten Signs Spring Is Here!
10. I am again poised to prove my amazing prescience in choosing my NCAA bracket winners.
9. I’ve switched from not walking on the treadmill to not walking outside.
8. Those damn filet-of-fish commercials…enough said.
7. Tea Party protesters have switched from shouting in five-buckle overshoes and quilted underwear to shouting in…um…yeah, that really won’t change much until early July.
6. Ducks and geese are once again able to swim directly across Hwy 14 east of Tyler.
5. Dr. Snow is digging out his “Second Place in the American League Central Division” Detroit Tigers t-shirt.
4. Ducks and geese are once again able to swim directly across our basement.
3. Will soon be able to switch my Facebook profile picture from furry winter hat to my Twins cap.
2. THE SPRING KICKOFF AT THE LAKE BENTON OPERA HOUSE…“BROADWAY MEETS LAKE BENTON”… ON MARCH 27TH WITH SHOWS AT 2:00 AND 7:30. CALL 507-368-4620 TO RESERVE YOUR SEAT OR EMAIL LAKEBENTONOPERAHOUSE@GMAIL.COM!
And the number one Sign That Spring Is Here…
1. Snow banks have receded enough for everyone to find last year’s Christmas lawn ornaments!

Always room for one more Wilmes…

2010-03-11T22:40:00.003-06:00

Hi all! Due to the fact that a couple dozen people have requested a piece of my time over the past few days, this week’s blog will be short and to the point. That, my faithful readers, would be to your benefit.
Yes, I survived the 2010 edition of the Wilmes Family Board Game Weekend. Yes, the food was awesome. Yes, we laughed too hard and slept too little. Thanks again to Clay and Linda for hosting the madness.
And yes, I once again was dominant. It is like a curse.
The main event, as you well know, was the chance to meet our newest family member, Meghan Wilmes, the young accidental email recipient over the past couple of years. (You’ll have to check out the blog archives for the complete background…trust me, it will be worth your time.)
Meghan also brought a gentleman named Todd. We’re not sure if this mysterious man was friend, boyfriend, hired bodyguard, neighbor or co-worker. What we do know is that he was a hoot, as was Meghan. They both fit right in as if they had been attending for years.
I am not only impressed that Meghan was willing to come, but Todd also.
“Yeah, Todd? Meghan here. Um…Friday night I’m going to visit a house full of strangers who have been stalking me on the Internet since early 2007. Just wondering if you want to come with…”
I’m not sure if he owes her money or lost a bet or what, but somehow he was coerced into escorting her to the big event.
You will find friend/boyfriend/bodyguard/neighbor/co-worker Todd and Meghan right there at the end of the table in the accompanying picture.
The party broke up about 1:30 AM and we parted hoping we see them again at some point.
Now that we pulled that off, we have to decide who we are going to get to fall for the old “accidentally included you in our group emails” trick this year…
Darla…start Googling.

I'm not heavy...I'm his brother

2010-03-04T22:17:00.000-06:00

Somewhere around 20 years or more ago--the facts are fuzzy at this point--my wife Kathy and I made the trip to New Hope (the west side of the Twin Cities metro) to visit my brother Clay and his wife Linda. I don't remember what we did or how long we stayed. It is probably a pretty safe bet that we probably played some board games and maybe watched a movie or two. We most likely did some shopping. These memories come to you from someone who can't remember if it is recycle week until I check in front of the neighbor's house to see if their tubs are at the curb.
Somehow...according to the (sub)urban legend...that innocent weekend spawned a three-day spectacle that includes non-stop games, food, laughs, teasing and possibly a modicum of alcohol. There are crock pots full of bun toppings (and only Steve's Affiliated buns from Lake Benton will do), pans of bars, ice cream pails of cookies, cake pans of cheesy potatoes, breakfast buffets...and I think there might be some fresh fruit. This delicious spread is always available, just in case we get weak from all the gaming.
I speak, of course, of Wilmes Family Board Game Weekend.
I'm not sure how it got to be where it is today...the 30 or more attendees and non-stop decadence. Clay claims Kathy and I just kept inviting more and more people each year without his permission, but I would lean more towards the irresistible pull of Clay's charm, serving as a beacon from our rural existence and guiding us to a suburban Nirvana. The natural magnetism, if you will, of his personality.
This, indubitably, is despite his email from earlier today claiming his fun this weekend will begin at about 2:00 on Sunday.
What a jokester!
As I mentioned last week, there is a bit of a twist this year. For anyone who has been reading this blog for awhile, you may remember our inadvertent family member, Meghan Wilmes. The short version: this poor young woman from Hugo, MN had the misfortune of having the same initials as me, and has been included in all the Wilmes family group emails over the past two years. She finally got through to us a couple of months ago that she is "not part of our family." She was very gracious about the fact she has been getting pie requests, holiday invitations and medical updates for longer than we care to know, because someone in our family (who also happens to have more than his share of charm) had my personal email address entered into his computer incorrectly. For those of you who haven't been reading this blog for long and would like the rest of this odd story, scroll down on this page. On the left side you will see blog archives. Click on "2009," then "November," and then "Meghan Who?"
A few weeks ago, I extended a formal invitation to Meghan to attend this year's festivities (I swear, this is the first time I've invited anyone extra...), not wanting to frighten her into thinking we were stalking her, but figuring we at least owed her a chance to meet the people she has been reading about...and she accepted. Tomorrow night (Friday) Meghan and a gentleman named Todd will be coming over for a meet and greet, and a bit of Marcello's pizza.
Meghan recently returned from a trip to Costa Rica, where she did some major volunteer mission work. I, of course, remember that one time I helped fill Santa bags in Lake Benton. We'll have plenty of stories to share about giving of ourselves on a global scale.
I would guess I'll have stories to share of the weekend in my blog next week...and maybe a few pictures. Clay and Linda have been empty-nesters for years. About 362-½ days of the year you can hear the soft ticking of the clock on the kitchen wall. But on a very special 2-½ days in late winter, it is the equivalent of Times Square on New Year's Eve. I have to believe they relish the break from the norm...
Now that I think of it, I don't ever remember seeing Clay after about 10:30 on those board game nights. Maybe his happiness cup gets so full he has to take a small break to keep from getting too giddy...
Maybe he slinks away to start planning for the next board game weekend...
Or, heaven forbid, he needs a break from our obtrusive, insensitive, boorish...
Nah...HE LOVES US!
SEE YA TOMORROW NIGHT, BROTHER!

It might as well be spring…

2010-02-25T22:24:00.001-06:00

Things are starting to look a bit brighter these days. The weather is supposed to give us a bit of relief this week. This is good, because my SUV needs washing desperately, and I’m tired of buffing it one spot at a time with my coat when I repeatedly underestimate my personal width as I walk by.
Another reason I find my excitement level spiking is that American Idol is finally getting down to business as they trimmed to the top 20 this week. I always think I’m safer proclaiming my love for the show in a blog so I don’t have to be scoffed at by some of you in person. I find that it doesn’t help, however, as I can still visualize some of you rolling your eyes at the mention of the show. I used to think the same thing…before I ever watched it, of course. I imagine that being a musician for most of my life helps draw me to the show. The added drama of becoming emotionally attached to some of these fledgling stars makes it downright addicting. This year has some extra spice, as Ellen DeGeneres has replaced Paula “What did she just say?” Abdul on the judges’ panel, and last year’s newcomer to the show, Kara DioGuardi gets all flushed whenever contestant Casey James performs. He will win the votes of millions of females during the competition…oh yeah, and he can sing also. I’ll be the first to admit that even I think the guy is good looking…not a judgment I normally make with males. If there is a downside, it would be that at this point in the competition the show is on for an unwieldy five hours per week. I still encourage you to give it a chance from here on out…I can’t imagine that the show wouldn’t melt even the coldest of hearts.
Of course anyone who has even remotely known me over the course of my life knows that one of my greatest joys in life is following the Minnesota Twins. You may want to reserve a spot on the bandwagon this year. They are going to be HOT! If, that is, they can find the new Target Field under all that snow by April. They have plugged a couple of holes in the lineup this year, and I’m excited that with spring training gearing up, I get Twins news EVERY DAY in the Minneapolis Star Tribune.
My tinglyness is nearly maxed out by the fact that coming up the first weekend of March is the annual Wilmes Family Board Game weekend in the Cities. Tune in next week to learn more, as this year’s event has an exciting twist…
I want to thank all the people who responded to last week’s blog about being happy by blog post, Facebook and email. Who knew there would be that many of you out there that are as passionate about the subject as I am…
Lending even MORE credence to my plea to spread happiness were a couple of guests on Minnesota Public Radio on Wednesday. Interviewed were Nicholas A. Christakis and James H. Fowler, authors of “Connected.” The book goes into great detail about how contagious an individual’s mood can be. One happy person can affect an entire network of friends and family in a positive way, just by being happy. One sad and depressing person can pull an entire household and environs in the other direction. Happiness breeds happiness people! Go out and infect someone this week!
And what the heck…do it without a coat!!!

I’m no Bobby McFerrin, but…

2010-02-18T22:57:00.002-06:00

I am happy that Paula Abdul is no long on “American Idol.”
There. That was easy. Within about five seconds of my asking myself, “why should I be happy?” I came up with a great reason. One of my favorite shows (scoff if you must, “American Idol” has all the excitement and emotion you could reasonably expect in a reality show) no longer makes me sit through long and incoherent critiques of burgeoning musicians twice a week from January through April by Ms. Abdul.
Happiness…it is all I am asking for the remainder of my days.
Happiness.
Happiness seems to be more elusive than I would have imagined. As I’ve mentioned, I spend some time on Facebook, and a few hundred people’s random thoughts scrolling through my “live feed.”
So many seem to be unhappy every day of his or her life.
I am happy that I was not born in Haiti.
I have people who are close to me who are unhappy way too much. I go on ad nauseam about how an unhappy minute is a wasted minute.
Everyone has adversity in his or her life. It is how quickly you shake it off and move on that can be the deal-breaker on living an awesome life. Of course, the older a person gets, the more that person thinks about those things. I can’t waste my life on being unhappy. Every time I see an “I hate my life” post, I fight the urge to intervene…despite the fact that it is probably none of my business.
I am happy that Minnesota downhill skiing Olympian Lindsey Vonn posed in a swimsuit for Sports Illustrated.
I always preach that you can’t count on your friends or your family or your hair stylist or your cat (well, maybe your cat) for your own happiness. You can only count on yourself. Your day…or week…or life…is what you make of it.
Some days are diamonds and some days are horse manure. You can’t change that. Sometimes you have to dig through a little horse manure before you can find that diamond…and unfortunately, more often than not, you’ll never find the diamond.
If you expend much of your energy on making yourself happy, what you get from others is just gravy, baby.
I am happy when I think about gravy.
I haven’t perfected my theory yet. I still let people bring me down once in awhile, but I do my best to fix the problem quickly and move on. We’ve all had people try to steal our happiness at some point in our lives. Sometimes it is intentional and life-changing…won’t mention any names…but usually it is unintentional, and we tend to make it a bigger deal than it really is. Sometimes people leave us for reasons we don’t understand, and sometimes people are taken from us before their time, for reasons we don’t understand.
I am happy I don’t have cancer.
Unhappiness seems to strike the young and the old more readily. Everything in many a young person’s life is played out with steep mountains and deep valleys. OMG!!! I THINK HE LIKES ME! OMG!!! MY HEART IS BROKEN!!! I HATE MY LIFE!!! WHY IS MILEY CYRUS SUCH A SLUT???!!! I HAVE TO GO TO SCHOOL TOMORROW!!! I HATE THAT SCHOOL IS CLOSED AGAIN TOMORROW…WHY DOES IT ALWAYS HAVE TO SNOW!!! OMG TAYLOR LAUTNER IS CUTE!!!
Of course old people’s version of this would be something like, “get off my lawn you rotten kids!...” or “I ordered these eggs over easy!!!” or “Obama is a Nazi.”
I am happy with the feeling I get when my phone vibrates in my pocket.
I’m sure I’ve had my drama queen moments in my life, but I’m doing my best to curtail my future unhappiness. I refuse to grow into an unhappy old man…and if that annoys some of you…I’m not sorry.
Need a dose of happiness right now? Here, for those of you old enough to have seen the movie “The Jerk,” I’d like to remind you of one of my favorite movie quotes…
Well I'm gonna go then. And I don't need any of this. I don't need this stuff, and I don't need you. I don't need anything except this.
And that's it and that's the only thing I need, is this. I don't need this or this. Just this ashtray. And this paddle game, the ashtray and the paddle ball game and that's all I need. And this remote control. The ashtray, the paddle game, and the remote control, and that's all I need. And these matches. The ashtray, and these matches, and the remote control and the paddle ball game. And this lamp. The ashtray, this paddle game and the remote control and the lamp and that's all I need. And that's all I need too. I don't need one other thing, not one - I need this. The paddle game, and the chair, and the remote control, and the matches, for sure. And this. And that's all I need. The ashtray, the remote control, the paddle game, this magazine and the chair.
And I don't need one other thing, except my dog.
Oh, I forgot to mention you have to picture Steve Martin saying this with his pants around his ankles.
Never saw the movie? Go to iTunes and download The Beatles’ “Maxwell’s Silver Hammer.” If that bouncy little song doesn’t just naturally elevate your mood, then you should seek professional help.
It’s easy to make yourself happy.
Research says (yeah, like anyone is going to check my sources) that it actually takes less effort and is easier on your body to be happy. It even has healing powers. Look at me…I’m proof that laughter keeps you healthy! (Don’t tell Aetna I said that.)
We’re in times when it seems like the entire country is angry and pointing fingers and shouting.
Dial it down a couple of notches for Heaven’s sake.
I am happy there is a Charlize Theron…and you would be too if you just saw the picture that came up when I Googled her name to make sure it was spelled correctly.
If you promise to be a little nicer to everyone in the future, I won’t print the words to “Don’t Worry, Be Happy” here…although sorry I just put the song in your head.
Over half my life is most certainly gone, and by golly I plan on making the best of what’s left.
And all I need is a daily dose of happiness…oh, and well, I need my remote control.
But that’s all I need… :)

What are you looking here for?

2010-02-11T22:07:00.003-06:00

You know what? If you are 52 years old and you don’t feel like doing your homework, you shouldn’t have to, right?
Right.
With that, I give you my Top Ten Reasons I’m Not Doing A Blog This Week…
10. I’m having a hard time dealing with the fact “Glee” won’t be back on the air until April.
9. Spending all my time looking for the perfect Valentine’s gift for the love of my life. You wouldn’t believe how many kitty toys there are out there!
8. Frankly, I’m still a bit woozy, and more than a little star struck after watching Sarah Palin’s teleprompter-free Tea Party speech.
7. Hello! Hollywood week on American Idol!!!!!!
6. Just never seem to have enough time to read my Tyler Tribute.
5. Wanted to do a blog on my cat, but didn’t want to give Noelle an opportunity to make fun of me.
4. It’s my annual “try-to-suck-all-the-Dorito-crumbs-out-of-my-computer-keyboard” week.
3. I tweaked a tendon on my “P” finger.
2. Can’t stop laughing when I use the term “P” finger.
And the number one Top Ten Reason I’m Not Doing A Blog This Week…
1. Spend all my time online trying to find Lady Gaga’s dress from the Grammy’s for Kathy.

Join us, we’re waiting for you…

2010-02-04T21:41:00.001-06:00

Any of you who have read this claptrap over the past few years could have surmised that I have an addiction to
A.) Movies
B.) Television
C.) Gadgets
D.) Computers
E.) All of the above
Unfortunately, I have Best Buy tastes on a thrift store budget.
I still manage to get by, however. I communicate with others on my cell phone. I spend my day at the office working on a computer…okay, actually two computers. I listen to my iPod on the way home, where I turn on my computer and check my email before allowing my Facebook buddies to entertain me. I take a short supper break before returning to my home office. Some evenings I have photography or video work to do. If not, I will park my ample fanny (um, hi Jeff) in front of my computer anyway, and while Kathy is watching something on Bravo or Lifetime in another area of the house, I watch a movie or fire up Hulu.com and try to get caught up on The Daily Show or sometimes just make sure my computers are updated with virus protection or the hard drives are healthy.
Finally, before bed I go “old school” and do some reading, then I roll over to sleep…with the TV on, of course.
If I weren’t expected to contribute to the financial health of our household, I really would seldom have a reason to leave the house.
I have a freezer full of ground beef, after all.
Human interaction? I have too much already. Sometimes people call me while I’m entertaining myself on my laptop!
I have a wife and daughter with whom to interact. When they get tired of interacting with me, I always have my online community. Facebook is perfect for me. I don’t have to speak to anyone in person, I can keep in touch daily with friends, past and present, old and young. I highly recommend it to everyone. Many who have told me they didn’t have any desire to join Facebook over the past years, enjoy it more than he or she expected when they finally give in. You can participate as much or little as you want. You can share as much or little as you want.
I am able to enjoy news stories or videos recommended to me by my friends, advertise for the Opera House and upload videos and photos to share with my family and friends, and enjoy the same uploaded by them. I can communicate with others, investing a total of about 20 seconds, and then move on. No 15-minute conversations for me. If they reply to my communication within a week or two, that is no problem. If they ignore me, that is fine also.
Sometimes it is just fun to post something controversial, and watch people post comments and argue about it for a few hours.
There are friends from whom I have never seen a post, and there are friends who seemingly post something every five minutes. I probably ignore 98% of the posts that come up on my live feed. I can’t believe there are a million Facebook groups out there, and some of you feel the need to join them all. Groups like “If 1 Million People Join This Group, Taylor Swift Will Stop Singing.” Yeah right.
I have my favorite posters among my friends...usually people who make me laugh or keep me informed. You know who you are.
Since it is already too late to turn back on one of the least interesting blogs I’ve ever composed, I’ll give you a little taste of the gripping stuff you can find on FB…
Direct from my site…(drum roll)
Here are 25 random things about Mark:
1. I created the "Rhumba."
2. Sometimes I wake up at night and think the monkey from the Taco Bell commercials is watching me sleep.
3. The keys to my backyard shed are in the upper left drawer of my computer desk.
4. When nobody is around I put butter on my pizza.
5. I love butter.
6. I'm forced to watch TV at home on a 26" screen.
7. Sometimes when I burp, other stuff comes up with it.
8. I am the (illegitimate) child of Red Skelton and Totie Fields.
9. I watched The View once when I was in the hospital.
10. My middle name is Alice.
11. Sometimes when I do the moonwalk on carpet, my socks come off.
12. I think Iowa is creepy.
13. When I was very young, I didn't know that the "k" in unknown is silent.
14. For some reason "Kokomo" is going through my head right now.
15. In kindergarten I was in love with Valerie Gravley.
16. When I was a senior, I was in love with Valerie Gravley.
17. I watched "Ellen" once when I was in the hospital.
18. I just got a new cell phone.
19. I don't believe I have ever "skipped" while walking.
20. For a couple of weeks in 1977 I had boogie fever.
21. I, too, thought Abe Vigoda was dead.
22. I like grape jelly and garlic bologna sandwiches.
23. The tabloids have been trying for years to link me with Madonna.
24. I am a Grobanite.
25. I used to just assume Hannah Montana was Joe Montana's daughter.
How can you resist? Come join us on Facebook. If you haven’t already had just about enough of my non-stop drivel, look me up when you get there for hours of “entertainment.”
We’re waiting for you…

Nothing a little birthday pizza won’t fix…

2010-01-28T22:52:00.000-06:00

For those of you who may have stumbled on last week’s blog…no, I didn’t hear a thing from Conan O’Brien on Tuesday. Apparently he has no problem keeping all that money for himself. I did, however, have a birthday that I will remember for many years. For the first time in 52 birthdays, I rang in my birthday stranded in a cornfield south of Chandler. As a matter of fact, I spent the first 10 hours of my 52nd birthday stranded in a cornfield south of Chandler.
Thankfully, that cornfield houses the building I’ve worked in since last March, so I was warm. Not wanting to look like a girlie-man, I waffled on whether or not to head home early with the high winds and blowing and drifting snow on Monday morning. I waffled a bit too long though, and ended up getting stranded at the office until 10:00 AM on Tuesday...my birthday.
Working in a building that lies in the middle of a cornfield isn’t normally a big issue. There are drawbacks. The wind seems as though it never stops and it always seems to run about 10 miles per hour higher than any other location at which my time is spent. Considering I’m working in the wind industry and we are located at a site with 137 turbines, my suspicions are probably valid.
It gets a bit more difficult, however, in bad weather. Eventually it gets to a point where nobody is able to get in or out of our location. So if all you brought to work were the clothes you are wearing, then all you will have until you leave are the clothes you are wearing. You can’t run across the street to order take-out.
As it turned out, I waited too long, and by the time I thought it was probably time to make a run for it to get back to Tyler, the DOT closed all the highways. It seemed that I would be at the office until further notice. Fortunately for the 10-12 of us who were going to be stranded, the last person who made it in on Monday brought four large pizzas.
All meat…my favorite.
Our building is always manned 24 hours a day, seven days a week. Usually, however, we let people go home every 12 hours or so…if they can get there.
As long as I was stuck there anyway, I put in a 12-hour day (which would be a short day if I were still working in the newspaper business) before clocking out. I had delusions for awhile that the wind would stop blowing and I would head home before midnight, but the wind didn’t subside until early Tuesday. Full of pizza and wielding a bag of microwave popcorn, I settled into the conference room and a few of us enjoyed watching movies until sometime after midnight.
Yes, I got to follow up my favorite pizza with my favorite pastime while munching on my favorite snack. Things could have been worse.
Unfortunately things did get worse, as soon as I attempted to get some sleep. Unlike the “Center for Wind Energy,” or whatever it is called, up by Hendricks, our building isn’t equipped with four hotel rooms. We have two choices for sleeping…office chair or tile floor.
I tried both, without much success with either. My attempt to sleep in my office chair at about 1:30 AM failed after about two hours. I then hit the floor, lying on a thin fleece blanket and using my coat as a pillow. This lasted for a half hour before I gave up. The next half hour I spent trying to get up off the floor with my gimpy knee. Picture a manatee attempting to do ballet…it wasn’t pretty.
When I finally was able to scale the side of a desk and plop back into my office chair it was 4:00. I remember checking my cell phone clock at 4:30, and don’t remember much after that until my cell phone alarm rang at 5:45 AM.
I swiped my card through the time clock at 6:00 AM and began another work day. Happy Birthday to me.
The view outside after sunrise was remarkable. It looked like one of those documentaries on Antarctica that they show on The Learning Channel…with the exception of a few protrusions that appeared to be vehicles rising out of the snow banks.
Finally, by 10:00, enough of the snow in the parking lot was removed so that I could snake my way back to County Highway 1, and make my way home.
Once I got home, I took a quick tour of my driveway with my snow blower, had a little lunch, and me and Joe the Cat headed to the bedroom for what we thought was going to be a long winter’s nap. Over the next three hours, I was reminded of how much our phone rings while we are at work during the day. At about 3:30 I gave up, leaving Joe the Snooze to sleep by himself under the blankets.
I somehow stayed awake through our previously scheduled birthday dinner and a movie on Tuesday night, and was back in bed by 11:00.
I was still apparently recuperating this morning (Thursday), as I overslept by about 45 minutes.
After being quite vocal in the past about my affinity for winter weather, I’m guessing there will be some of you out there who will enjoy the fact that I spent part of my birthday in a cornfield. Go ahead, I probably have it coming.
A little piece of advice, though, if any of you find yourself in a similar position…
Pizza and movies makes everything better.
Even in a cornfield in Antarctica…

A half century, plus two...

2010-01-21T20:15:00.000-06:00

Here we are again. It is hard to believe it is already time for my annual birthday blog. It seems like it was only yesterday that I was whining about turning 40. What a silly young man I was… Hopefully, eight years from now I’ll be looking back and chuckling at how I was whining about turning 52 back in 2010.
Usually, after I whine about how old I am, I encourage people to send me gifts. This has never worked out so well, but maybe this year Conan O’Brien will stumble across my blog and be motivated to send me a little something with the extra cash he has lying around.
Sorry, back to whining about my age…
Reading the Minneapolis Star-Tribune this week, I was shocked to read that it has be 33 YEARS SINCE THE VIKINGS WERE IN A SUPER BOWL!!! That cannot possibly be. I watched that game. And to make matters worse, I remember watching the three they participated in before that one!!!!!
All the things I struggle to remember in my life, and I can't seem to shake the memory of those heartaches.
Most of the items in my growing catalog of age-related issues, however, are exacerbated by the amount of weight I carry. Since an October Camden State Park photo shoot I’ve been hobbling around on a sore knee. Finally, in the past few days I’ve been able to navigate without the cane. I’ve been probably 90% cane-free. The diagnosis was a Baker’s cyst—a small balloon of joint gunk leakage on the back side of my knee.
Of course Dr. Snow has a lot bigger words he uses when describing it.
The bottom line is that a cortisone-ish cocktail injected into the cyst a month ago has helped relieve the pain significantly, which in turn should enable me to return soon to my nightly jazzercise sessions. (Wow...Microsoft Word, as I type this, actually recognizes “jazzercise” as a word.)
I also require way too many drugs to keep me alive. Considering the number of trips I make to the back end of Thrifty White Drug in Tyler, you would think I would be burning calories faster than I can consume them.
I guess not.
I can not, however, complain with too much conviction. I have a very good life. I am surrounded by a great family and many very loyal friends (albeit not so loyal that I get birthday gifts from them annually), as well as a job with a company that treats me quite well.
I’m thankful also that I don’t recall ever walking around with my cap on sideways and my pants on the ground…an affliction of the very young and, I would assume, the very old. For those of you who don’t get the “pants on the ground reference,” ask your kids about it…or at the very least, ask someone as young as me.
I am also experiencing elevated levels of joy over the current football season…but I won’t tempt fate by discussing it until after Sunday night.
Just when I think I can’t possibly have any more joy in my life, I find out I can get 10% off hotel rooms with my AARP card.
Yeah, my life is pretty good despite the fact that it is flying by at a break-neck pace. Before I know it, I’ll be bragging about how good my life is at 82—probably to my 92-year-old sister.
In the meantime, no matter how good life is for me at 52, there’s always room for more bliss…so Conan, if you are reading, I like movies and music. A simple gift card would be a great place to start. (PO Box 89, Tyler, MN 56178)

Not bored...

2010-01-15T19:31:00.001-06:00

Finally, in the fifth decade of my life, I am learning to appreciate the month of January. I used to think that the month was worthless, and other than one day at the end of the month when I would get presents each year just for turning a year older, the month could have just as well be stricken from the calendar. Half way through January, 2010, however, I’ve discovered an appreciation for the coldest month.
January still has its issues. Most noticeable is the fact that it has turned my 45-minute commute to the office into a one-hour drive, minimum. Weather drawback #2 would be a cursed wind chill that at times can suck the air right out of you.
Then there is the reality that the excitement of the holidays have passed, coupled with the arrival of the December credit card bill. This can be survived also, but it requires making sure Kathy (a.k.a. Oh-My-God-We-Are-Destitute-Nelly) is sitting down when she opens the MasterCard bill.
Here in 2010, however, I’ve learned to appreciate the post-holiday lull, and now that I’m no longer in the newspaper business, I even get to stay home in the evenings. At the height of the craziness, I would have my choice of 18 basketball games in which a Lincoln County basketball team was participating, as well as an assortment of school board and city council meetings.
Now, however, I only head out in the evenings when it is MY choice, and that is usually only when the temperature is above 20.
The rat race has slowed to a crawl.
Being an active Facebook participant, I am always amused by the number of “I’m bored” posts by young people on my live feed. These posts appear daily, but increase exponentially on, say, the second consecutive snow day off from school. I distinctly remember school snow days from 40 years ago. There was the anticipation of hearing the WCCO announcer giving the list of school closings and the agony of listening through the alphabetical listings before finally hearing the magical words, “Russell, two hours late.” One particular January…I believe it was either 1968 or 1969…this announcement was always followed with “Russell, closed.” That year we might have made it to school three or four days in January, and they sent us home early a couple of THOSE days.
I don’t recall ever, during any of those many snow days, experiencing boredom. I was usually too excited about the prospects for the day to even permit myself to go back to sleep.
There were games to play, puzzles to assemble and usually a round or two of Canasta or Scrabble with Mom. Once the snow and wind subsided, there was a natural amusement park outside our door. There were a host of activities to keep a kid busy, from snow forts to snowmen, but nothing more fun than grabbing a sled and heading across the road from our house to the giant hill in Mr. Hively’s field. Ten minutes of climbing to the top of what seemed like a mountain would be rewarded with the fastest trip you could imagine on a plastic “flying saucer”…even if nine times out of ten you found yourself upside down at the bottom of the hill.
Midday, we would trudge back in and lay our socks and mittens on top of the heater (where these items would acquire a stinky, burnt smell), fill up with a hot meal and then head out for round two in the afternoon, smelling of burnt, slightly wet yarn.
We hardly noticed the cold, and if we were lucky, the red in our cheeks might have faded by the time we crawled into bed, where we would drift off to sleep hoping that WCCO would once again make our school famous the next morning.
Bored? It wasn’t part of the lexicon.
When all those other activities were exhausted, there was always reading. In those days I would read books about Fran Tarkenton or Bart Starr or Harmon Killebrew, but the choices were nearly unlimited, and today the choices are even greater. Kids! Open a freaking book!!!
Today, with the onset of middle age, I’ve realized that I can actually have too much fun lined up, and have had to scale back my magazine subscriptions from an unwieldy seven or eight to a more manageable three. This has freed up some of my precious reading time for catching up on my Stephen King addiction. Mr. King can write books faster than I can consume them. I have probably read around 35 of his novels and collections of short stories, but that still leaves me 10-12 books behind. Last week I was able to start “Wolves of the Calla,” which was written several years ago.
So, this year I am embracing the slower pace that January brings me…a pace that I am hoping lingers well into February.
You youngsters (look at me sounding like an old person), before your next “I’m bored” update, think about making a trip to your local library.
And starting today, I believe I have come up with the perfect daily status update for my Facebook page…
“Not bored.”

You can count on it…

2010-01-06T21:11:00.001-06:00

I know you’ve all been waiting for it, and just because I don’t work for a newspaper any more, doesn’t mean I can’t bring you my bold Predictions For 2010!!! OK, I’m no Amazing Kreskin, but that is not necessarily a bad thing. I actually went to www.amazingkreskin.com, just to see what HE was predicting for 2010. All I found was a blank blue page. If he was trying to connect with me telekinetically, I wasn’t receiving anything. This was just reinforcing what I’ve been telling Kathy for years…I can’t read minds.
The only other psychic I could think of was Jeanne Dixon: Psychic to the Stars, but I found out she died of cardiac arrest in 1997. Rumor has it her last words were, “whoa, I didn’t see that coming!”
So with no help from a real psychic, and without further ado, I give you my Ten Bold Predictions For The Coming Year.
Thank me in December…
1. Syndicated television program Entertainment Tonight will uncover shocking news about Michael Jackson’s death.
2. Tiger Woods will put away his putter and go back to playing golf.
3. Katie Couric will be granted another interview with Sarah Palin, during which Palin will admit she doesn’t really know what the term "going rouge" means, but she can split open an elk from top to bottom with one arm tied behind her back, reaffirming her credentials for a presidential run.
4. The Twins home opener at Target Field will be delayed two hours due to a winter weather advisory.
5. Governor Pawlenty will continue to make appearances throughout the country while not running for president.
6. Brett Favre will break a hip during the third quarter of the NFC Championship game, but will bark incredulously at Coach Childress on the sidelines when Chilly suggests Brett comes out of the game.
7. Fox News entertainer Glenn Beck will uncover a covert plan by the Obama administration to change the sky from blue to green, spurring an impromptu tea party on the Potomac.
8. The Minnesota Twins will win the World Series. (One of these years this prediction will actually be correct.)
9. It will be revealed that Paula Abdul’s defection from American Idol was actually predicted by Nostradomus.
10. Nobody will remember any of these predictions by March.

A Christmas too white…

2009-12-31T09:34:00.001-06:00

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…

2009-12-17T21:37:00.000-06:00

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

2009-12-10T22:42:00.001-06:00

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?

2009-11-19T22:21:00.004-06:00

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…

2009-11-11T18:55:00.001-06:00

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

2009-11-05T20:05:00.000-06:00

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…

2009-10-28T21:58:00.001-05:00

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...

2009-10-25T23:07:00.007-05:00

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

2009-10-23T00:16:00.000-05:00

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

2009-10-15T20:21:00.000-05:00

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

2009-10-09T09:00:00.001-05:00

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

2009-10-01T06:43:00.000-05:00

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

2009-09-24T18:38:00.002-05:00

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…

2009-09-16T22:58:00.001-05:00

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

2009-09-09T22:40:00.001-05:00

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

2009-09-02T21:19:00.003-05:00

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!!!!!

2009-08-26T21:12:00.002-05:00

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…

2009-08-19T19:38:00.002-05:00

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...

2009-08-12T21:21:00.004-05:00

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

2009-08-05T21:11:00.001-05:00

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

2009-07-29T22:10:00.000-05:00

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..

2009-07-22T17:31:00.000-05:00

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?

And now, a short commercial break…

2009-07-15T23:11:00.000-05:00

I had several complaints last week that I “left the ‘Off the Mark’ readers stranded on the tarmac in Chicago,” or words to that effect. So I would imagine I might get a modicum of grumbling when I tell you I’ve postponed “The Rest Of The Story” to next week because…well…because I can.
And so I bring you this commercial break…
Seven weeks of rehearsals come to a close this week as we open the Lake Benton Opera House production of “Damn Yankees” on Thursday, July 16. With the economy still trying to crawl out of its funk, what a great time to scale back one extended trip this year and instead—come and see our show.
I have had the privilege of serving on the Opera House board for over a decade. We have a diligent board of 12 who have carefully built a stable fiscal base for the non-profit organization. Through careful planning, forward thinking, acceptance of new technology and ever-changing marketing, our organization has weathered many challenges, and remains a popular attraction to our rural area. Another financial hurdle presented itself this week as two of our three busses canceled on opening night. A tough depressed economic state strikes again as the bus tour companies were unable to sell enough spots to make the trip profitable.
In this particular case, that is about a $1,000 hit that the Opera House has to take. On the bright side, that opens up another hundred seats for some of you lucky locals!
If you have seen an Opera House production before, we hope you return this summer…and coax a friend to come along.
There are many great performances in this show by local actors…some who have been returning to our stage year after year. You won’t be disappointed.
“Damn Yankees,” of course, is the story of the perennial doormats—the Washington Senators of the 1950s—and their futile attempt to beat that hated band of Bronx Bombers from New York…the Yankees.
As many of you may know, in 1960, those very Senators picked up and moved to Metropolitan Stadium in Bloomington, and have since been known as the Minnesota Twins. Calvin and Thelma Griffith brought with them the likes of Harmon Killebrew and Bob Allison and the players on that team became the idols of a certain eight-year-old who grew up in Russell collecting baseball cards. They still are bringing me joy 43 years later.
And they still can’t seem to beat those damn Yankees.
Come see some great individual performances. Two of my favorites come from a couple of “older” gentlemen, Mike Hulziser of Marshall, Dr. Steven Snow of Tyler. What a pleasure to watch their dedication and talent. Behind the scenes these two gentlemen, along with R.J. Fleet, Tim Wall and Lynn Carpenter, were indispensible to me. My sincere thanks to all.
The show opens July 16 and will close on July 26, and will include 10 performances.
For tickets, call 507-368-4620 or email lakebentonoperahouse@gmail.com.Next week—I promise—hang on, it is going to be a bumpy ride…

Part 1: What were Orville and Wilbur thinking?

2009-07-08T06:31:00.004-05:00

Armed with the knowledge that…well…I had no choice in the matter, I booked my round-trip flight to Houston in early April. I would be on Flight 6547 from Sioux Falls to Chicago, and Flight 6201 from Chicago to Houston, and Flight 367 from Houston to Denver, and Flight 718 from Denver to Sioux Falls. Four takeoffs, four landings (my first four of each)…that is, of course, if they didn’t end up scooping me out of the Gulf of Mexico when we overshot Houston.
The same week that I booked my flight to Houston for some intensive job training, I saw an article in the Star Tribune that told of United Airlines’ new policy on hauling around XXXX-chubby passengers. It seems that as of April, they were about to get tougher with those of us who aren’t able to squeeze into their dainty 19-inch seats. Any passengers not able to suck “it” in far enough to lower the armrest separating him or her from the person in the next seat would be bumped to a different flight—if all other seats were filled. A quick check of the online seating chart showed that the seats were filling up quickly. I contemplated just how that would be carried out. Would I be allowed to enlist the aid of a couple of burly passengers in an attempt to force my armrest into position? Maybe slather on some Vaseline? If still unsuccessful, would the pilot make an announcement? “Hello, this is your captain speaking. There will be a slight delay in our flight as the passenger in seat 23C has exceeded our width restrictions. I ask that everyone please lean away from the aisle as he attempts to de-plane. I would like to personally thank the passenger in 23B for remaining calm throughout this process.”
My wife, Kathy (the frequent flyer in the family) seemed a bit too amused by my upcoming ascension. As a matter of fact, nearly everybody I know (except Mom) seemed a bit too amused. My nephew, Brent, the air-traffic controller, assured me that the Sioux Falls airport had done everything in their power to keep the geese away from the runways, and informed me that Captain Sully probably wouldn’t be available to pilot my flight.
Three weeks of underlying nausea was coming to a crescendo as Kathy and I pulled into the Sioux Falls airport. I said my final farewell and went through the baggage check. I detected a nearly imperceptible shudder as the security person entertained, and then rejected, the thought of a body cavity search.
Unable to concentrate on any reading, I waited in the terminal for my flight to board. It seemed like it took forever. When the boarding finally began, the “special” people were called first. People who apparently paid more for their ride than I had. After the Gold and Silver and First Class people were seated, they called for poodles, gerbils, geckoes and finally, “economy class” (read: no class) passengers were called.
That included me.
I stepped into the plane and immediately asked the young, blonde beanpole for my seatbelt extender, and then turned toward the aisle to what turned out to be a pleasant surprise. My fear of flying completely disappeared. Unfortunately, it was because my claustrophobia reached out and seized my larynx…and squeezed.
I’ve always been blessed with the ability to appear calm when my insides are swimming frantically. This much cannot be said for the unfortunate young lady who ended up the seat next to mine. As I was stuffing my laptop under the seat ahead of me and my carry-on into the compartment above, she appeared to be looking me up and down as she was rapidly calculating how a five-pound bag was going to hold 10 pounds of…well, you get the picture.
Apparently the comely young flight attendant suspected trouble after the seat belt request and followed me to my seat.
“If you would be more comfortable here, feel free to move,” she said, pointing to the dual empty seats in the back row, just outside the “bathroom” entrance. This was much better than, “yeah right, lard butt…you might want to haul it back here.”
I swear I heard a whimper of relief from the young lady who had just received the pardon.
I settled my plumpness into the back row and proceeded to attempt to de-constrict my airway. I was astonished how small the inside of a CanadAir jet looked, compared to the inside of those jets in the movies. Again, however, I was about to catch a break. My phobia concerning small places was soon forgotten. After a short taxi to the point of takeoff, the thrusters were engaged, and sudden g-forces were strong enough to pull everything back against my seat, oddly reducing my three chins to two.
My torso was suddenly moving faster than it had at any previous time in my half century here on this planet…the same planet from which I was about to disengage.
It was the most surreal one hour and thirty-two minutes I had ever experienced.
And I grabbed armrests on each side of my double-wide seat as I hurtled through the air on my first-ever trip to Chicago…that toddlin’ town.
I hung on real tight for the next 468 miles, as if somehow the next-day headlines might read, “Tyler man only survivor in CanadAir jet crash. Investigators suspect it was because he hung on really tight.”
Next week, the saga continues.

For those of you reading in the Tyler area, the Tyler Area Community Foundation has asked me to pass on some information to you. If you would like to keep up with what is going on with the group, click on their link on the upper left side of this page. You may sign up for regular blog updates by sending your email address to Tim O’Leary at oleary@mnns.com.

You want me to what?

2009-07-02T06:47:00.000-05:00

My new career has been filled with lots of opportunities to learn new things. I knew, generally, what I would be doing when I started with enXco back on March 19th, but I had no clue as to the nuts and bolts behind the operation. There are those who would argue that I’ve been clueless as long as you’ve known me, but now I was taking that reality to a whole new level.
Anyone who has started a new job will tell you that it is very uncomfortable and you feel pretty much like an idiot for a minimum of three to six months. I’ve asked for an extension on that this time around.
My first week here I was getting instruction that, as far as I could tell, was being delivered in Greek. The first person at the office who was saddled with the task of “teaching this old dog some new tricks” was actually a young man from France. Anthony was a busy young Frenchman, and didn’t have a lot of time to spend on instruction. This time the degree of difficulty for this unfortunate young man was set pretty high. A middle-aged former editor (who had ruined his hearing by playing in rock and roll bands for 24 years) was attempting to learn a new profession that was seemingly being spoken in Greek with a French accent. Anyone who has watched a movie with me knows that my level of comprehension dips mightily when someone speaks to me in any dialect but Upper Midwestern.
Despite my mental and aural handicaps, young Anthony did leave me with enough information to help me muddle through the two-inch thick textbook and learn a lot on my own in the ensuing weeks, long after he was back in the relative safety of his homeland.
I would guess that the haunting image of my glazed-over eyes and dumbfounded expression still sneaks in and out of his nightmares.
Many times over the past few weeks when I would explain to friends, family or acquaintances where I was working, there would be a brief, uncomfortable silence when he or she would be mulling over the idea of asking something like, “they don’t have you climbing towers, do they?” Usually I could detect a slightly bemused look spread across the face, as if he or she were picturing just such a scenario. At that point I would proceed to reveal that I am doing a variety of computer-based tasks for the company, which would generally elicit a relieved nod of the head. Most would stop short of a wiping of the brow and uttering, “whew.”
Bear with me as I attempt to explain what I do…
I work at enXco’s Operations Control Center, a 24/7 facility where we watch wind turbine sites across the country, not only for enXco, but also for several other companies. Our operators watch for problems with the individual turbines, and can shut down, restart or report problems with turbines as far away as Hawaii…all from little old Chandler, Minnesota. My main duties in the coming months will be to design the computer screen interfaces with which these sites are monitored.
I have also been entrusted with a host of other jobs, including installing software, generating an occasional report and, well, counting the money out of the pop machines.
No, they don’t let me climb towers.
The software I will be using to create the screen pages is complicated, and requires some extensive training. I wasn’t even a week into my new job when my boss, Lyrae, called me into her office and informed me that I would need to attend three days of classes.
No problem, I thought, I could spend a couple nights in the Cities, or Mankato or even Rochester in the name of getting smarter.
“As a matter of fact,” she revealed, “there is a session in San Francisco next week. Would you be available?”
I think I might have actually managed to suppress the sound that a 51-year-old-never-flown-and-never-wants-to-fly person makes in the back of his throat when his airway attempts to restrict the free flow of oxygen into the body.
At the time, I was in the middle of directing the spring play at the Opera House and wouldn’t be able to get away…to Mankato OR San Francisco.
I explained that I had a previous commitment, which, as it turned out, wasn’t a problem to Lyrae.
“And besides,” I said, “I don’t fly.”
She replied that this was no problem, and we would work out something else.
To me, “something else” was probably taking an online course, or finding someplace within driving distance.
I was wrong.
A week later Lyrae walks past my desk and says, “I need you to go online and decide which training session you want to attend.” Figuring I could also possibly choose between maybe Sioux Falls or Des Moines, I went to the software company’s website to choose a location for my intensive training. My choices? Houston, Texas in April, or Philadelphia, Pennsylvania in May.
“Yeah,” I extolled, “the only choices right now are Houston and Philadelphia and…um…as I mentioned before, I don’t fly.”
“Pick one,” Lyrae replied, “and book your flight as soon as possible.”
Not wanting to be a difficult employee, I fought down the urge to once more convey the fact that I had no desire to be hurtled through the air in a giant death machine. I swallowed hard and booked a flight for April 27th out of Sioux Falls.
Destination: Houston.
I had just turned over my oh-so-short life to the hands of the people at United Airlines, knowing all along that neither Michael Jackson nor I was old enough to die.
As it would turn out, one of us would not live to see July.Next week’s blog will attempt to answer the question, “how did I end up in New Orleans?”

Getting pampered by the French

2009-06-25T22:16:00.002-05:00

OK, so I didn’t really know what to expect when I shipped off my first online “Off the Mark” last week, but have to admit I was a bit surprised by the response. Three hours after I posted my first blog, I opened my Gmail to 83 replies. By noon the next day I had around 150. So, not Dave Barry numbers, but I was happy that since I’m doing this for free, I was at least getting the satisfaction of knowing that several were getting enjoyment(?) out of it. With several more responses and comments since last week, I’m confident that I’m not just doing this for my mental health…although anything that may restore my mental health would certainly be welcome.
Comments ranged from “glad you’re back,” to “yippie” to “and what a blissful 18 weeks it was! …sign me up for some more of your mindless drivel.” (From Ken in New Ulm.)
The blog may come sporadically over the next few weeks, as my evenings are spent once again at the Opera House. This summer we will present “Damn Yankees.” (I’ll be shamelessly plugging this more diligently in the coming weeks.)
I would ask once again that you spread the word. If you know of someone who might be interested in reading this “drivel,” let them know. Maybe someone could print one out and take it to your local senior center. I’d like to make it as accessible as possible. I've had lots of requests from area seniors who may not have internet access.
My siblings may or may not be interested in this new venture. Since I never call them (I HATE talking on the phone) they will at least vaguely know what I am up to…
As I mentioned last week, I’m now working at a remote location south and east of Chandler. The name of the company is enXco. The company is so big they can change the Rules of Capitalization as we know it—starting with a lowercase “e” and then have the audacity to drop a capital “X” right there in the middle.
enXco is owned by a French company, called EDF, or Électricité de France. We are housed under a subsidiary called Energies Nouvelles, which translates to “New Energies.” That and “oui” is about the extent of my French.
enXco is all about dealing with “new energies” such as wind and solar power. It also appears that they take good care of their employees.
I have been blessed with the most amazing benefits package I could have imagined. Just thinking about the days they pay me to stay home makes me dizzy, considering I spent the past 12 years as an editor. I start with two weeks of vacation my first year, with 11 paid holidays AND a paid personal day. In addition, they have some kind of weird program where you stay home if you are sick. They pay you for that too! Add that all together and I could potentially stay home for five weeks a year. In a few short years, they will up that vacation time to five weeks in addition to holidays and sick leave. Leave it to the French to only make me work 10 months a year!
They’ve issued me two computers, three flat screens, an XL-heavy duty-lard butt size chair and a desk bigger than the one I have at home. Throw in a pop machine that dispenses 20 oz. bottles of Diet Dew and one would ask why I would ever want to leave.
I wonder if I could talk them into afternoon naps. Don’t the French do that?
My commute takes me 37.1 miles from my doorstep each day. The complete round trip affords me a chance to continue to feed my addiction to audio books. I’ve blown through five or six already.
So a message to those of you who have expressed worry over my welfare, I’m doing fine. I may have been run out of Lincoln County, but the French are taking good care of me down here south of Chandler.
As a matter of fact, I pay homage to them whenever I can by ordering French fries. Maybe I'll buy myself some French’s mustard. I could even try listen to my Les Miserables soundtrack a bit more often.
Till next week…au revoir…and vive la France.
I LOVE those guys!

Off the Mark is online

2009-06-16T17:55:00.000-05:00

I hope readers will enjoy this new online “Off the Mark” blog (short for weblog). I’ve had so many requests to continue a column somewhere, somehow, that I decided it was time to drag myself into the 21st century and post it online. I know that for many of my former readers, finding it online isn’t a possibility. If some of you out there know of an older (or younger) person who would like to read “Off the Mark” in its current state, please print it out and give them a copy!
You will be able to read new columns in the future by checking back at http://markwilmes.blogspot.com/ or “friend-ing” me at www.facebook.com/mark.wilmes; just click on “Add as friend.” Then, each time a blog is posted on blogspot it will pop up on your news feed.
The third way, and probably the best way to make sure you don’t miss a post, is to email me and ask to be put on the email mailing list. Each time I post a new column you will receive an email with a link included. I hope to post a new blog every 1-2 weeks.
Let me know if you are interested in receiving columns in the future by email or by posting a comment on the blogspot. It’s nice to be back!

Six weeks of living the life of my cat

It has been awhile, 18 weeks since my last column to be exact, but at least for the foreseeable future, I’m back.
My first order of business is to say thank you. What a remarkable show of support I’ve received throughout the county and around the state. From letters and cards to emails, phone calls and people stopping me on the street to tell me they miss my presence in the local papers. It all helped me immensely in getting through a difficult time. For the first time in my life, the decision to leave a job was not my decision, no matter what you heard in the story being circulated.
Of course when you find out at the tender age of 51 that you will be job-hunting again, it puts you in kind of a state of shock. In the past 30 years, every time I’ve left a place of employment, I’ve always had something else lined up in advance.
Not this time.
So, for five consecutive weeks, I tweaked, printed and sent out resumes to nearly every place of business within 40 miles.
I hadn’t had to search for a job in over a decade. Somehow in the last 12 years, however, I became immune to the usual feelings of anxiety and intimidation that comes with the anticipation of a job interview. My best explanation would be that there is not an interviewer alive who could put me through some of the stuff I experienced in the newspaper business. I actually looked forward to some of those interviews.
This time around, however, the bar seemed to be set a bit higher. I could not possibly have been let go from a job at a worse time. The economy was in the tank and companies were cutting positions, not looking for new hires.
The companies who were actually hiring had scores—maybe hundreds of applicants for a single position. The interrogation process was bordering on brutal. I had four interviews in excess of a half hour, two that cruised easily past 40 minutes. The feeling fell just short of being in a smoke-filled room with a light shining in my eyes. Usually there was a panel of two or three waterboarders…um…I mean interviewers.
Questions ranged from the expected, “why do you think you would be a good hire for this position?” to the difficult, “where do you see yourself in five years?” to the bizarre, “would you have a problem working in an office with a cat?” and “what would you think if you were the cat?”
If there was a beneficiary of my turn as an unemployed vagrant, it was our cat, Joe. He loved hanging out in my back-room home office with me. Every hour or so, whenever it seemed to him I may have forgotten he was there, he would give me a quick “meow” flop on his side, and then raise his head to see if I noticed he was in position for a chin rub.
A combination of the season (February), the fact that we only had one income in the house (Kathy’s) and I actually like the room a bit chilly, Joe was probably a bit needier than usual. He would regularly scale the side of Mount Mark and curl up on the shelf that protrudes from just below my chest, settling in for a long winter’s nap. On the mornings I couldn’t quite produce enough heat, he would be drawn to the keyboard of my laptop, curl his paws up underneath and plant himself on the rising warmth, purring steadily. Despite repeated removals, he was persistent, and eventually he knew he would win the battle because I didn’t have the heart to deprive him of one of his favorite activities. Each time I would diligently lift him enough to see the start menu and shut down the computer.
On one of those occasions, however, my favorite cat managed the correct key combination to activate a sequence that selected the “Mark” folder on my desktop, delete it, and somehow bypass the recycle bin, obliterating every valuable file contained within. I’ve never heard of a combination of keystrokes that will do that, although considering Joe’s girth, it might be activated by pressing all the keys at the same time.
After six weeks of cat-bonding and an increasingly skittish wife, who was beginning to wonder if I would ever work again, my luck began to change.
I got a couple of call backs, and ended up getting offers from both. Offer number one was as writer and copy editor for a regional magazine produced in Brookings, SD. I was impressed with the publication and the management and was ecstatic about working for a quarterly publication that only had four deadlines per year, after working for publications with 52 deadlines per year.
The only thing, I thought, that would dissuade me from accepting their offer was a better offer, which I didn’t think was possible. Not more than six blocks removed from that interview, however, I received a call from offer number two, with a wage and benefit package that would blow any I’ve ever had out of the water, albeit in a position I would have to learn from the ground up. Again, despite what has been “put out there,” I am now employed at an office south of Chandler (not Edgerton) working for enXco, a growing wind power company.
I am thankful each day that anyone would take a chance on a middle-aged out-of-work former editor. For the scores of people who still ask me to “start up a newspaper,” – sorry that is not going to happen. Been there, done that. But it makes me feel good to know you cared enough to ask.
That answer, however, doesn’t hold water with one lonely kitty in Tyler who doesn’t think being employed is all that it is cracked up to be…