Not to be confused with “diva”ticulitis

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

Coming to a theater near you…

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

The Miracle on #8

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

Having a ball, thanks

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

FORE!!!!!

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

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

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

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

Sorry Darla, sports column this week…

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

*****

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

Part 5: And then the clouds parted...

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

Part 4: Murphy’s Law rears its ugly head

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

Part 3: The last shortcut I take…ever

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

Part 2: Houston, we have a problem..

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

And now, a short commercial break…

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?

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?

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

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

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…