Good things come to those who wait.

At least we like to hope so. Two things I’ve wished for my entire adult life have been in the news lately. Tony Oliva was elected to the Baseball Hall of Fame. And Roe v. Wade is likely to be overturned.

First, the lighter fare. Jim Kaat was chosen for the Hall along with Oliva, making it a double treat for Minnesotans. Tony O. and Kitty Kaat were stars on the Twins of my youth. They were vital cogs on the 1965 American League pennant winners. Being nine, that will forever be my favorite team. Stupid Dodgers.

Oliva spent his whole career with the Twins. In the ’60s, he was one of the best hitters in the game, on a career arc to be one of the greatest ever. Unfortunately, knee injuries and surgeries meant he literally limped to the end of a shortened career. Instead of gracefully gliding across right field at old Met Stadium, he was forced to DH. It was painful to watch him run the bases at the end.

The question for Hall of Fame voters was what to do with someone who was so amazingly gifted, but not for very long. Every year when voting came round, I had discussions with friends about the relative merits of quality vs. quantity.

Kaat’s career was the polar opposite. He was a stalwart on the mound for the Twins before leaving in 1973. He went on to pitch for four more teams before retiring after a 25-year career. For Kaat, it was a different debate than for Oliva. Kaat was good, but not great. He was just good for so long.

Both became ambassadors for the game. Oliva has worked for the Twins in several capacities. Kaat had a lengthy announcing career following his lengthy baseball career. They’ve both been pleasant and insightful the many times I’ve heard them. I even met Tony at Hardees in Sleepy Eye!

When the announcement came on Dec. 5 that they’d been elected, a few of us got together for a celebratory beer. After initial expressions of relief and joy, I said, “Now what do we do?” Something we’d talked about for 40 years had come to pass. I wasn’t quite sure what would fill that space.

Now I’ll put down the sports page and pick up the front page. Roe v. Wade was decided by the Supreme Court January 1973. I was a junior in high school and had no idea the impact that would have on our country and my political involvement. For every discussion I had about Tony Oliva, I probably had a thousand about abortion.

It is an issue I, like many of you, have cared deeply about. I can’t see around the fetus as an unborn child. As science advances, the proof of that grows. I don’t think the argument in favor of abortion is a strong one.

I have friends who are pro-choice who I respectfully disagree with. I have had good talks with people on the other side, although not many lately, as those never seem to go anywhere. I also understand democracy is messy and we don’t get our way all the time.

I’ve spent time in both parties, but the great majority of my votes have been for pro-life candidates. It’s interesting that Roe v. Wade didn’t immediately sort the way it would later. In the ’70s, there were large numbers of pro-life Democrats and pro-choice Republicans.

For years we heard we needed a Supreme Court that would reverse Roe. Now that is in place. It is also a court that could do damage to rights for all of us, born and yet-to-be-born. By predictable 6-3 votes, this court looks like it will weaken voting rights, environmental protections, immigrant rights, workers’ rights, meanwhile defending wealth and power.

There is concern the Supreme Court has become politicized. In a democracy, an independent judiciary is essential. Historians will point to the Democrats rejecting Robert Bork in 1987 as setting us down this path. The shameless blocking of Merrick Garland for nine months and ramming through Amy Barret in two cemented a view that the Court has become a wing of one party.

Senate confirmation hearings have become circus, more akin to drunks in a bar than statesmen and women in a prestigious hall of democracy. Of the most recent, conservative columnist George Will wrote of, “Ketanji Brown Jackson, who in a reasonable era would be confirmed 100-0.”

Regardless, I support the defeat of Roe v. Wade. But it will not mean the end of abortion. It will turn it back to the states. Our country will not look appreciably different than it does now: in some states it will be easy to get an abortion and in others, not.

I have thought for a while that pro-lifers should shift our focus. The unsatisfying world of politics might change legislation. But I wonder whether we should be about the business of changing hearts.

What if every child in America was welcomed and valued from conception on? What if every mother felt supported and protected? Right now, many children are born into situations that are difficult. What if those of us who are pro-life make sure we are pro all lives?

Here in Brown County, we have First Choice Pregnancy Services. That is a wonderful example of good work that can be done for mothers.

At the same time, our nation has a health care system that is great if you are well off, not so if you are poor. My daughter who lived in Spain, France, and Switzerland will tell you how health care in those places is not dependent on income. Here, it absolutely is. Maternal mortality rates are consistently higher in economically depressed areas.

We need to get to work solving large gaps in our country in education and housing. Paid parental leave is available to well off and not to the poor. Affordable day care reduces stress for those having a child and is lacking. All these things make choosing life more difficult.

We need be honest with ourselves. When Roe is overturned, wealthy women will go where abortion is legal, and poor women will seek unsafe alternatives.

But if every newly pregnant mother felt safe and protected by the community around her, if she knew her child would be born into a caring, nurturing society, there would be less abortions.

We can all contribute to making this a good place to have and to be a baby. A kinder, fairer, more decent place doesn’t sound like a bad place to be an old guy either.

You’ve heard of your life flashing before your eyes in its final moments. I had something like that happen in a tree recently. Thankfully, it wasn’t my final moment. Which you probably guessed since I’m writing this.

That phenomenon was in the news lately. Scientists were doing brain scans of an 87-year-old Canadian man as part of a research project. By a coincidence, one that was fortunate for the scientists and not so much for the man, fate chose then for him to have a heart attack and die.

In the seconds before and after the man’s heart stopped beating, scans showed rapidly increased activity in parts of the brain associated with memory and dreaming. Scientists were intrigued by the presence of gamma waves. Those suggest the man’s brain may have been replaying memories from throughout his life.

While I’m not sure about my final moment, I can attest that our brains can riff through a lot of thoughts in a short time. And there might be a correlation with how far above the ground you are. I researched that myself.

Late winter is time to prune apple trees. Last week I headed to the orchard with saw and loppers in one arm and ladder in the other. It was a warmish day with snow piles receding.

I raise trees the way I raised kids: slightly out of control and unkempt. Once a year I try to bring some order to the branches. Branches that I can reach from the ground are preferred. A ladder gets me to another set. Then there are some that are too high.

I was reaching for one of those near the top of the ladder. Right then, I realized the ladder was going to tip over on some soft ground at a slight incline where I had thoughtlessly parked it. Going down with the ladder isn’t as noble as going down with the ship. My only other option was to stay where I was. So I grabbed the branch I was leaning over.

When the ladder got to where it was going, I was left hanging. Literally. It was then that my brain kicked into a higher gear. I quickly surmised that I didn’t like my situation. My life didn’t flash before my eyes. A couple of days I’m trying to forget maybe, but that doesn’t count.

I remembered something like this happened to Wile E. Coyote once that did not end well for Wile E. I imagined Road Runner smirking up at me.

If I was young and nimble, I would have flung the rest of me on to that branch and found a way to shimmy down the trunk of the tree. I’m not young and never was nimble.

Pam was in the house a few hundred feet away. If I started yelling, there was a chance she would hear and come out and set the ladder back up for me to safely descend to the ground, no worse for the wear.

There were two problems with that plan. Screaming frantically is so unbecoming, downright embarrassing. A man wants to maintain some dignity, even if he is dangling from a tree. The other problem is that if Pam did hear and came outside, she would jump to all sorts of conclusions about my decision-making abilities. Besides, did I really want to talk to Pam right then?

Then I realized I was visible from the highway. If someone happened to be looking toward our yard, they might see me clinging to that branch. Perhaps they would drive in the driveway and calmly set the ladder up. Or they might panic and call 911. That would be followed by emergency vehicles racing here from town. As their sirens blared into our yard, Pam would have noticed, with all those concerns I previously listed.

What if my buddy and intrepid reporter Fritz Busch happened to be on his way to cover a breaking news story in Cobden? If Fritz saw me suspended in air, he would have no doubt come to my aid. But being an intrepid reporter, he would have wanted to first get a picture. As much as I like having a column on page four of The Journal, I cringed at the idea of being on the front page. Again, it would have been easy to see a photo of my predicament and jump to all sorts of conclusions. Like that I’m not very smart.

Being a believer, prayer crossed my mind. God could plainly see the mess I was in. I wondered if God sees humor in the crazy things people do. Maybe grin and shake His head in a God sort of way?

The old joke came to mind where a man falls over a cliff and is hanging on a limb. He yells out for God. God answers in a thundering voice, “Do you trust me?”

The man says, “Yes Lord, I do.”

God instructs him to let go of the branch. The man looks up to heaven and says, “Is anyone else up there?”

I thought of my friend Scott. Scott is a Safety Coordinator by trade and would have had a thing or two to say to me right then. When I told him once about almost falling off a bin, he informed me about the three points of contact rule. That says at any moment in a climb, three of your hands and feet should be affixed. I have tried to follow that. In my moment of distress, I clearly had only two points of contact.

A few years ago, I sent a picture to Scott of my extension ladder in a loader bucket which I was going to use to replace a yard light. He was not impressed. I believe he still uses that as part of his Safety Training class.

By now, it was occurring to me that I had one option left, a bad one. I let go of the branch and fell to the ground, landing with a thud and a roll. I’ve been limping around with a sore knee since, but it could have been worse. I didn’t need to break anything this close to spring planting.

A few days later, I told Scott my story. Scott pointed out that March is National Ladder Safety Month. Oh, the irony. Consider this my contribution to that: Don’t do this.

A grain marketing guy about my age said this is the most volatile period for commodity markets in his career. I always say of prices, they could go up or they could go down. I have amended that to, they could go way up, or they could go way down. It’s fun to sell at high prices. But the stress of getting it wrong is amplified when soybeans can run up a dollar and fall a dollar in 24 hours.

Grain markets are just one wildly unpredictable thing I follow. The costs of farm inputs are bouncing erratically. My agronomist is already worried about getting fertilizer next year, price be damned. The auger I want to buy might be here by fall. For sure it will cost me a thousand dollars more than a year ago.

That’s my small world. Everyone has their own kind of crazy right now. All of us who pay for gas get to play along with the uncertainty at the pump. We all wonder what higher interest rates will mean to us or our children who are earlier along the path of kids and houses.

Everybody I know who builds, makes, or fixes things has had periods of not knowing about supplies or what they’ll cost tomorrow. We all remember the Great Toilet Paper Crisis two years ago. Since, we’ve become used to hearing this or that might or might not be available.

A once-in-our-lifetime pandemic gets blame for the unstable nature of things right now. But deeper, longer lasting phenomena got us to this place. Increasingly destructive weather likely tied to man-made climate change has affected and will affect everything. As we propel toward eight billion people on the planet, a population Earth has never seen before, issues will flow from that.

Set into a world that is challenging under the best of scenarios is social media which rewards obnoxious behavior with attention and likes. More and more people talk, and less and less people listen. Newt Gingrich created modern governance thirty years ago when he said, “Where we agree we will cooperate. Where we don’t, we will not compromise.” I know that wouldn’t work in a marriage; how would it in Congress?

Into this cauldron, throw the invasion of a small democracy by its large nuclear-armed autocratic neighbor, and you’ve got a stew that is boiling over.

We have a war being live streamed by unwilling participants. What a difference from wars of the past where we had to wait for the 6:00 news to know what’s going on. Not surprisingly, this close-up of war is discomforting. War is a wretched enough experience for young men who never chose to be there. Taking it to civilians is another level of heinous. A photo of a Ukrainian soldier carrying a baby through wreckage wrought by Russian bombs is moving to most of us.

Not to a certain man in Moscow. Vladimir Putin has bombed and killed thousands of civilians in Chechnya, Georgia, and Syria, so what’s going on now is sadly predictable. It has been heartening to see much of the globe rally to the side of Ukraine. It is less so that Putin has so many admirers in our own country.

Pat Buchanan wrote, “In the culture war for the future of mankind, Putin is planting Russia’s flag firmly on the side of traditional Christianity.” Buchanan can be excused for writing that before Ukraine, but not those other countries.

Perhaps this will subside. Maybe our lives will settle again after pandemic, war, and wild price swings fade away. Maybe not.

All this was knocking around in my head like a misfiring engine. Then I heard these words. “Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.”

As ashes were rubbed onto my forehead, thus began Lent. Every year, Ash Wednesday comes just in time. Winter has grown long, coinciding with certain qualities in me. Ash Wednesday means brighter, warmer days are ahead. It also means that I can make another run at sculpting a better me. It is especially so that Ash Wednesday comes just in time, here in our winter of discontent and craziness.

This doesn’t coincide with any official church calendar, but Ash Wednesday always seems the beginning of the faith year to me. We begin the six weeks that will lead to Jerusalem, Calgary, and finally an empty tomb. Lent is the cleaning up of our lives and airing out of our souls, as we try to be our best selves on Easter morning. Lent is a second chance. Or a third chance. Or a 66^th chance for some of us.

“Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.” It might be easy to look at that line and find it depressing. You can see it as shrinking and reducing us, as we are nothing more than dirt. But for reasons I don’t completely understand, I am encouraged by it.

Maybe it’s knowing that the dust from whence I came was formed by the Creator. It is the hands of God using the materials of the Earth to make us. It is holy dirt created on the third day in the Book of Genesis. I am glad to be of it.

There was a poster around in the Sixties that showed a little boy who it appeared was being disciplined. In a bold statement of self-worth, he is saying, “I know I’m somebody, cause God don’t make no junk!” I’ll take that as a type of benediction.

Maybe I like the reminder that I shall return to dirt. I only have so much time here. It is limited to whatever number of days God grants. Those days will be a lifetime to me, but they are a blink in eternity. While we are here, we are directed to love; our instructions are clear. We are to do more good than harm. But it’s not an endless task. We have those days, and then our work is done.

The world is a messy place right now. It always is. Beautifully and perfectly created by a God of love, then made messy by flawed and imperfect beings. Messy, like a smudge of ashes rubbed on a forehead.

My morning routine includes checking the obituaries over coffee. As the comedian Carl Reiner instructed, “Each morning, check the obits to see if you’re listed. If not, eat breakfast.”

On a recent morning, there was “Patricia Ann Stadick.” As I do with each name, my mind flipped it around, seeing if I could make a connection. A light bulb burst on. That was Pat of “Ralph and Pat!”

I say “Ralph and Pat” in the way I might refer to a comedy duo. In a way, that’s not too wrong. Funny lines bounced between Ralph and Pat Stadick, sometimes each teeing one up for the other. Both were witty and had eyes that twinkled when bantering back and forth. They played off each other in a George Burns-Gracie Allen style. (If you didn’t grow up with black and white television, you might have to google Burns and Allen.)

The Stadicks had a long time to hone their act, married 65 years when Ralph passed away in 2016. I got to know them early in my farming life. We were in some of the same farm and community groups. Besides being funny, Ralph and Pat were genuinely kind and caring. When they asked how my young family was doing, they really wanted to know.

I wouldn’t have known Ralph and Pat in the years before they were married. Of course, they were individuals with their own unique qualities. But most of the time I was with them, they were together. I knew them as a couple; I knew them as “Ralph and Pat.”

I was thinking about people I know mostly as part of a pair. As couples came to mind, I realized I often put the husband’s name first. I think of Mark and Elia and Scott and Judy. I asked Pam, and sure enough she usually thinks of them in reverse order, woman first. Perhaps my habit of husband first a remnant of the “Mr. and Mrs.” days?

When I think of friend-couples we’ve known for a long time, it becomes hard to imagine one without the other. Francis without Rebecca in a way doesn’t make sense. It’s like having one glove or one shoe. They share kids, they share a house, and decades of history. A lot binds them. Most of my conversations with one have been with both.

Of course, there are people who mostly know me, and there are people who mostly know Pam. For those, our spouse is a name they know in a secondary way, connected to the first. But a lot of friends know us as “Pam and Randy.”

A little of me gets folded into our identity as a couple. Pam’s strengths and weaknesses are stirred into mine, creating a type of batter that is more than the sum of the ingredients. I’m okay with that. Pam softens some of my rough edges, and I hope I round some of hers.

It’s not uncommon for one of a longtime couple to finish the other’s thought. Or at least clarify it. Sometimes if I know I’m going to have trouble retrieving a name, I’ll look at Pam as I move through a story. Since she’s heard that story a hundred times, she can pick it up where needed.

Making a marriage work, being part of a team, is something I’m proud of. “Pam and Randy” has been around for 41 years. But those are in in the past: we need to make our marriage work today and the next. It’s not unlike a long baseball season; yesterday’s box score doesn’t help you today. Ralph and Pat had 65 of these. For them, the season is over, and “the totals on the scoreboard are correct.”

I don’t want to be pollyannish about this. There are times I’m sure Pam wants to yell, “That’s him, not me!” The comedy duo of “Randy and Pam” lays an egg sometimes. We’ve had rough patches. No doubt, Ralph and Pat did, too, in decades of farm, family, and health challenges.

None of this should be taken for granted. Two-person teams break up. All of us know couples who’ve split. Looking back on friends who’ve gone through a divorce, in some of those cases, it made perfect sense. You could see it coming a mile away. For others, it snuck up like a slow arriving cold front. No one can ever really know what’s going on inside of another’s relationship. Sometimes it’s a surprise to those on the outside.

A few times, we’ve known both parties to a breakup equally well. In some of those, we’ve gotten to hear both sides of a bad story. That’s a painful situation to be in. It makes you think marriage counselors are underpaid. As the saying goes, there are two sides to every story and then the truth.

We’re at an age where couples “break up” for another reason. Time will take one of the partners and the other will go on alone. Some time, hopefully a long time, one of “Pam and Randy” will leave the stage and the remaining member of the duo will be left to perform solo.

We are in a couples-prayer group that began meeting thirty-five years ago. Originally, we were part of an international Catholic organization called Teams of Our Lady. We gather for a meal, prayer, and a lesson based on a chosen reading. In that setting, I know the others almost exclusively as couples. We’ve been together for the raising up and moving out of kids and funerals of parents.

We’ve talked about what it will be like the first time one of us comes to a meeting as a single. It will happen, whatever we think of the idea. The husbands joke with Mike, who is the youngest of the husbands by a little, that he will have to help our wives when we are gone: moving furniture, carrying in softener salt, all that guy stuff.

Dewy and Karla, Mickey and Minnie, Tim and Lora, Homer and Marge, Wayne and Jackie, Fred and Wilma, Mike and Gigi, Popeye and Olive, Rick and Gwen: couples I’ve known.

Most of us don’t spend a lot of time awake in the dark. Unless you work night security. Or have sleeping problems.

I’m in the latter group. Invariably, I wake in the dark and spend time trying to get back to sleep. Sometimes it’s in and out of restless sleep till I get up and turn on the coffee at 5 a.m. Sometimes it’s two or three hours of lying awake, thinking about how tired I’m going to be the next day. Which is as unproductive as a person can possibly be.

In talking to friends my age now, they are catching up with me in sleeplessness. It’s a common Old Guy complaint. Trips to the bathroom are part of that. This is all tied up with prostates. Now we’re really in the realm of Old Guy material. If you’re young and reading this, consider this a heads-up. At a certain age, you’ll talk less about cool stuff and more about prostates.

In any list of healthy habits, getting seven to nine hours of sleep is included. All manner of ill affects follows from not getting enough shut eye. I realize my lack of sleep is not helping me in my goal of farming till I’m 100. I try to keep up with others of those healthy habits. I eat well. I exercise. I drink beer. Well, mostly healthy.

I was thinking about what one does when they are lying awake at 3 a.m. I was thinking this at 3 a.m. So it was less of a hypothetical question than a practical one.

First thing, you do NOT want to wake your spouse. Having two people awake instead of one doesn’t improve the situation. If that spouse is grumpy the next day, it becomes even more regrettable. As a wise person once said, “If Mama ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy.”

Sleep experts recommend not staying in bed if you are awake. Occasionally, I slide out from the covers and go downstairs. I turn on a light and pick up a book. After a few minutes of reading, I begin wishing I was in bed sleeping. So I go back to bed, where I can wish I was asleep without having to wish I was in bed, too.

There is one useful thing you can do in the middle of the night. Pray. Some nights that is spontaneous prayer, offering up to God thoughts of family, friends, and situations. After I cycle through my prayer list a few times, I start adding things like, “the Twins to sign a starting pitcher.” Finally God asks, “Shouldn’t you be asleep?”

Sometimes I turn to the Rosary, using my ten fingers, or toes if it’s been a really long night. When that works, I get groggy by the third or fourth decade. “Hail Mary, full of grace…um, hail Mary…uh, blessed art thou…holy Mary, Mother of God…lead us not into temptation…no, no…hail Mary…” I trust Mary appreciates the effort.

I’ve noticed this. Two in the morning is a good time to think about things you’ve done wrong. There is nothing like dark, cavernous, solitude to call to mind things you’ve screwed up or dumb things you’ve said. A little self-persecution is good for the soul. It’s not a particularly good sleep aid, however.

Along those same lines, the middle of the night is peak time for worrying. I might have noticed a small hydraulic hose leak on the planter that I’m trying to ignore because I don’t want to take the time to fix it. After dwelling on that in the darkened bedroom, I begin worrying the planter will break down. And I won’t get the field planted before it rains. And we’ll get a terrible yield. And our loans will get called in. And we’ll lose the farm. And Pam will take up with some floozy guy she met in Cobden. And I’ll have to go to work in a poultry processing plant.

Sometimes I work on one of my columns when I am lying there staring at the ceiling. I come up with some strange stuff in that sleep-deprived, addled state of mind. That last paragraph is a good example right there.

Another use of hours spent awake in the dark is we can plan our next day. Our perspective isn’t always good, afloat in the night ocean. I tend to overestimate my ability to get things done. I might come up with fifteen things I need to do tomorrow, which I can only get done if I don’t eat or go to the bathroom. Consequently, the next night I’m lying there wondering why I didn’t get anything done the day before. So, I plan to do twenty things the next day.

A fun activity in the middle of the night is the Position Game. I sleep on my left side, my right side, and my back. At any given moment of wakefulness, I decide that if I switch positions, I’ll fall blissfully asleep. Till I get to that position. And decide that another position is the right one. All this turning must be done in a way so as not to wake the woman I mentioned earlier. Turns are made a quarter inch at a time, agonizingly slowly.

There is one advantage to being awake at all hours of the night. I’m attentive in case of imminent danger. Wide-eyed and vigilant, I can leap cat-like out of bed to defend our home against ne’er-do-wells. Speaking of cats, 99 per cent of the noises I hear that have me tensed and in attack-mode come from the cat knocking around downstairs. The other one per cent I assume is poltergeist, and I can’t fight them anyway. So I stay in bed.

I’ve read it is common to wake during the night, so maybe you can relate. If you think about it, wouldn’t the good sleepers among our prehistoric ancestors have been eaten by nocturnal saber tooth tigers? Next time we’re lying there staring at the illuminated clock, maybe we should count our blessings.

There is a bright and glimmery poster on social media for the upcoming Sleepy Eye Chamber of Commerce Annual Meeting. Down a way, under the “All Things Sleepy Eye” banner and award winners to be honored is “GUEST SPEAKER: Randy Krzmarzick.”

Christina Andres is Chamber Secretary and a friend. We’ve worked together on some things. She asked if I would talk a few minutes at the meeting. She assured me I was one of several presenters. I figured I could wing it, talking about the centennial of Babe Ruth’s visit. Then I saw I was “GUEST SPEAKER.”

As someone who is generally terrified to stand up in front of a group of people and open my mouth, I’ve found myself doing just that quite a bit over the years. I’m not sure why. I’m a farmer and spend my day talking to myself, my dog, and occasional imaginary friends. Real people expect more acuity than my dog.

I’ve always been impressed and somewhat incredulous at people who can present information, ideas, or stories by spoken word. I dabble in written words and that is difficult enough. In writing, I can and do go back over and revise. I used to have an eraser; now I have a delete key. Both are invaluable; I’ve worn out several.

Good speakers have to “think on their feet.” Their brain must find the right word to follow the last, and make it seem effortless, like a word river flowing. We know about 40,000 words. (I looked it up; I didn’t count.) Finding the right one is no small feat. Then the words have to be organized and coherent. On top of stacking words, it’s also good to have a point you’re making.

I learned long ago I don’t have the skill to talk off the top of my head. A couple of vocal car crashes when I was younger proved that. Since then, I have a set of notes in front of me when I speak at something. Even with notes, I’m capable of many “ums” and panicky moments trying to figure out what my notes meant.

It’s not a natural thing, to speak continuously out loud. Conversation isn’t like that. You say something, someone else says something in response, then someone else has a different thought. If you listen, you might even learn. Conversation is a team game. Being a speaker is like trying to make a 40-foot putt with a gallery staring at you, holding their breath, hoping you don’t choke.

There are careers that involve speaking to audiences. Teachers have roomfuls of eyeballs staring up at them every day. Most of us would be frightened to death at that prospect. Teachers are heroic. Lawyers talk a lot. Juries are bound to hang on every word, hoping to make a right decision.

Politicians come to mind, too, when I think of people holding forth with spoken word. It’s interesting that so many politicians were lawyers before seeking office. Not a lot of politicians were teachers. I guess teachers have more important things to do.

Early in my farming career, I found myself running in alternative ag circles. I got asked to speak at the Lamberton Experiment Station about things I was trying on the farm. That led to other invitations to talk at other farm-type events. One of those was at a church by Owatonna to a group of sincere Lutherans. It was my Lake Wobegon moment. They fed me afterwards, so it couldn’t have been too bad.

Scott Sparlin tagged me to talk at a Minnesota River rally, and other river and environmental events followed from that. Sometimes, I filled the role of token farmer. It’s a burden to speak for agriculture since it’s such a broad and varied field. In those cases, I made clear that I was one voice speaking from one place at one time.

Classmate and buddy Steve Hansen was for a while director of the Minnesota River Joint Powers Board, a consortium of counties in the watershed that did some good work. Steve’s job wasn’t easy as he moved back and forth from the ag world to the environmental world. Thankfully, there are environmental farmers and farming environmentalists. That helped Steve walk that tightrope.

Looking back to then, our country wasn’t as divided about everything as we are now. We’ve gotten much better at not getting along. Still, there were hot button issues around farming practices, water quality, and regulations. Around 2000, Steve and his board came up with an event at Good Counsel in Mankato where involved groups would come together to search out areas of agreement. He asked if I could talk at that.

I prepared some thoughts on respecting each other and trying to understand where each was coming from. I shared ideas on real listening, deep listening. Somewhere in my talk, it took a turn toward a spiritual notion of honoring each other. We are all children of the same Creator, after all.

Around then, we were singing a hymn at St. Mary’s that tugged at me each time we sang it. “Will You Let Me Be Your Servant” was a simple song with an up and down melody. I’m not sure where this idea came from, but I decided we would end my talk by singing that together. It was maybe one of the stupidest and best Ideas I’ve had at the same time.

I had copies of the words for each table. Then I led the singing a cappella. I am most definitely not a singer. Even now, I wonder, “What was I thinking?” But it kind of, sort of worked. People joined in and music was for a few minutes a balm for all the challenging work we needed to do.

We are pilgrims on the journey,

We are travelers on the road,

We are here to help each other,

Walk the mile and bear the load.

Will you let me be your servant?

Let me be as Christ to you,

Pray that I may have the grace,

To let you be my servant too.

Christina, don’t worry. I promise not to sing next week.

We all have memories. Happy ones, like births and weddings. Some not so happy, like accidents and deaths. Sports fans have all those, plus we have plays and games that stick in our heads.

A song came around on my playlist recently that conjured a memory. “Keep the Ball Rolling” is a fun little ditty from the Sixties. The memory that triggered is turning fifty. It’s not a good one. January 25, 1972, is a day Minnesota sports fans of a certain age will remember.

Musselman was only thirty that year. He’d had rapid success coaching high school and small college. He was a tactician, a basketball prodigy, and most of all, a master motivator. Hence, the pregame firing up players and fans. Gopher basketball had been moribund for years, playing in front of a half empty arena. By January of 1972, Williams Arena was not only sold out, fans were in their seats early anticipating the show.

There was coordinated ball handling, dribbling behind the back, passing by kicks and bumps, all timed to the music. There was a player juggling balls on a unicycle. It was part circus, part tent revival with fans as the congregation. On top of the pageantry, the Gophers were good for the first time in years. Musselman had brought in junior college recruits who clicked with the players there. With the young coach’s acumen, they were winning.

St. Mary’s took a school bus down to Minneapolis back then for a Gopher Day. We had tickets to a game at the “Barn” early in January. I was enthralled to be part of 17,000 whooped up fans. Cheerleaders, pep band, maroon everywhere: it was magical for a farm kid from Brown County.

On January 25th, defending champion Ohio State came to Minneapolis. Both teams were undefeated in the Big Ten and nationally ranked. That was not a surprise in Ohio; it was in Minnesota. It was the biggest basketball game at the U. in decades, maybe ever.

That night, I was at the scorer’s table for a St. Mary’s basketball game. Friend Bill Moran was with me. We were sophomores, keeping stats. Between us we had a transistor radio on the bench. During breaks, we checked the game 100 miles to the east. Holding the radio up to our ears, we tried to catch the score from Ray Christensen, the voice of the Gophers for time immemorial.

St. Mary’s was good that year, so it’s likely the Knights won. Bill and I ended up in the hallway after our game with a crowd gathered around our radio. I remember what we were hearing made no sense. Ray Christensen was describing a brawl, not a game. He was reporting perhaps the darkest moment in Minnesota sports history.

The Gopher-Buckeye game had been close, hard fought, and low scoring. It was physical, and the referees let a certain amount of pushing and shoving go. Luke Witte was the star center for Ohio State. A particularly rough elbow to Gopher Bobby Nix went uncalled right before halftime. That triggered name-calling as the players headed off the court together.

A back-and-forth game turned to Ohio State’s favor near the end. With 36 seconds left, they led the Gophers 50 to 44. Witte was fouled roughly and fell to the ground. Gopher Corky Taylor extended a hand to Witte. Taylor said later that Witte tried to spit at him, which Witte denied. Whatever preceded, Taylor pulled Witte up and kneed him in the groin.

What followed would be headlined “An Ugly Affair in Minneapolis” by Sports Illustrated. Gopher Ron Behagen ran out to stomp on Witte. For ninety seconds, basically a riot ensued. Mostly it was Gopher players and even fans ambushing and striking Buckeye players before referees, coaches, and police could subdue the chaos. The game was called off, three Ohio State players went to the emergency room, and a wonderful Gopher season was tarnished irrevocably.

If ESPN were around then, that violent minute and a half would have played in a continuous loop for days. There is grainy video of it to be found. It’s hard to watch. Behagen and Taylor were suspended for the rest of the season. Dave Winfield was on that team and repeatedly struck a Buckeye player. He would have been suspended, were he not just outside the film taken that night.

The “incident” received national attention. With the slower pace of media then, the Sports Illustrated article a week later came to define the event. A blow-by-blow description meant every punch lived on in print. The governor of Ohio called it a “public mugging.”

Blame fell squarely on the young Gopher coach. Musselman was known for intensity and pushing his players to their limits. Maybe beyond in this case. The pregame show that I loved was called a “Barnum and Bailey act” creating a fevered and frenzied tone among players and fans. The writer referred to the “loud, steady beat of heavy rock music played over the P.A. system.” I’m not sure “Keep the Ball Rolling” counts as heavy rock music.

The article noted slogans painted on the Gopher locker room walls. “Defeat is worse than death because you have to live with defeat” certainly seemed to indicate an over-the-top approach. There were serious racial undertones in the story. That might sound different if written now.

Musselman coached the Gophers for three more years. I met him when he came to the Orchid Inn to speak at the KNUJ Player of the Year Banquet. Even in that setting, he was an intense and serious man.

Musselman went on to coach for three more decades, mostly in the pros. He won most places he went. He came back to Minnesota in 1988 to coach the expansion NBA Timberwolves. With a roster of “vagabonds and long shots” the Wolves won more than any expansion team had before. Some fans were upset. They thought the team should lose more to get a higher draft pick.

Whatever success Musselman had, the shadow of that January night in 1972 stayed with him. He suffered a stroke after coaching a game in Portland in 1999, which led to an early death at 59.

I’ve thought of another favorite Minnesota sports figure, Billy Martin, as sharing a place in my mind with Musselman. Both seemed consumed with competitiveness. Martin lived to 61. That their candles would burn out quickly is not a surprise.

On a typical day, our mailbox has the paper, farm publications, maybe a bill, and lots of solicitations, ten or more some days. We donate to some causes, and apparently the word is out.

The other day there was an envelope that didn’t fit those categories. It was from a fellow I know. I occasionally have business dealing with him and thought it was something to do with that. It was neatly folded and nicely typed. My heart sunk a bit when I realized it was a well written letter criticizing me for a recent column.

Occasionally I hear something negative about one of these efforts. Putting these out there with my name on them, it’s not to be unexpected. I had someone ask recently if I get many negative comments. I said not much and conjectured that people who think I’m an idiot quit reading long ago.

I used to have my own troll in the online version. The anonymous and consistently jaundiced “Jimmy Joe” was always ready with a negative comment. I’m not sure if something happened to ol’ Jimmy, or if he gave up on me, but he’s disappeared.

It was easy to brush off Jimmy Joe hiding behind a fake name. But the letter I got was from someone I like and respect. I gave it a couple readings. Since it was politely offered, I put it in that part of my head where thoughts and opinions gurgle around.

I don’t imagine any of us likes criticism. Ben Franklin famously said, “Our critics are our friends; they show us our faults.”

Yeah. Sure Ben. Whatever.

There is a sting to criticism. It is a confluence of embarrassment, contrition, defensiveness, with trickles of shame and anger flowing in. There, in that stream of emotions, I flash back to similar moments. All the way back to being a kid, and my dad is upset that I was doing something wrong in my chores. Or my mom pointing a mess I’d made. In those moments, my mom used to say I was a “lump.” I still call myself a lump when I screw something up.

Moving ahead a few years, Eila Perlmutter comes to mind. When I was at St. John’s, Eila was an English professor of some repute. She taught and wrote and was nearing the end of an esteemed career. I was part of an honors writing course. It was expected that you were serious about words if you were in that.

I remember going to see her about a piece I had written. It was humorous. At least I thought it was. Today we would call it snarky. Eila was not amused. The red marks surrounded my typed paragraphs like they were under siege. To say she had a scowl would be kind.

My dad and mom and Eila were right, and I learned from each of them. Accepting criticism is difficult but useful. If it comes from people who mean well and care about us, it can move us on the path to be the person we want to be.

I was thinking about the value of constructive criticism. In a marriage, it is a tool to be brought out rarely and with thought. If there is too much, that is nagging and can poison the well of married life quickly.

In our forty-one married years, there have been stupid fights and careless arguments. We’ve said regrettable things and forgiveness was needed. At the same time, no one knows me better. Whatever flaws I have would be impossible to hide for four decades. Not giving credence to that person I live with wouldn’t be wise.

I have noticed something and pointed this out to Pam. It takes processing time for me to hear her if she is pointing out one of my aforementioned flaws. An immediate shield of defensiveness goes up, which slowly lowers if I think about what she said for a day. I think that is not uncommon, to need time to accept information when we are being challenged.

There is one person who knows you better than your spouse. That is yourself. We are consciously and unconsciously evaluating ourselves every day. “Could I have done that better? Should I have said that better?” Self-criticism can be constructive. Here, too, it can be harmful if it grows out of proportion. It can become self-nagging. We can learn from our mistakes. But to beat ourselves up over and over can lead to despair.

There was a flurry of self-help books in the Seventies. Among them was the eye-rolling title “Looking Out For Number One.” Now blogs and podcasts have moved into that territory. There is no lack of people willing to improve you for a fee.

I suppose these can be helpful. Be careful in trusting a faraway writer working with stereotypes. Better to seek console from those nearby. Hopefully, we have a small circle of people around us who can offer gentle criticism if needed. That is a blessing if so.

Unfortunately, gentle, well-intentioned, and kind-hearted criticism is easily lost in the deluge of harsh and mean-spirited criticism that is epidemic in our country.

We are in Advent right now. Advent and Lent are seasons for looking inward and trying to make ourselves the best version of us you can. They can be times for reflection and refinement as we prepare for the holiest days. Metaphorically, we want to be the best we can be when we enter the stable Christmas morn, kind of cleaning up and putting on our best clothes.

Recently there was an “examination of conscience” as an insert in our church bulletin. For Catholics, that can be used as preparation for the sacrament of confession. A good examination is more than a list of sins we may have committed. It also asks whether there were times we could have done more. In other words, sins of omission, not just sins of commission are considered.

I see now this work of making myself the best person I can be isn’t a job I can complete like painting a room or combining a field. That task continues. My letter-writing friend is willing to help.