When I was a kid, I liked to fall asleep with the Twins game on the radio. The gentle tones of Herb Carneal lulled me to sleep. Franklin Hobbs played soothing music through the night on WCCO to which I would occasionally wake and drift back to sleep.
On June 4, 1968, the Twins beat the Yankees 3 to 0. I looked it up; I don’t remember the game. The next morning, I remember clearly. I woke to the sound of a CBS newscaster reporting the assassination of Bobby Kennedy. The window was open; the chirping of birds mixing with distressed voices coming from my radio.
I was only 12 years old, but I knew this was a moment of high tension. John Kennedy’s assassination was one of my first clear memories. Martin Luther King’s assassination in March was on everyone’s mind.
Moments like that stick in our heads, while myriad others pass unremembered. I bet you can script out the places you were on September 11, 2001, but not September 10, 2001. We remember times of intense tragedy and anxiety. Thankfully moments of joy and bliss stay with us, too. E.g., birth of children.
1968 is a half century in the past. If you are younger than me, you don’t remember much from that year. If you’re older, probably quite a bit. I listened recently to a documentary on Minnesota Public Radio called “The McCarthy Tapes.” It used radio archives from 1968 when Eugene McCarthy made his unlikely push for the White House. It included events beyond politics that made it such a volatile year.
As I listened, I was quite surprised how much I recalled. I was on the living room floor on a Sunday night when Lyndon Johnson shocked the nation, announcing, “I shall not seek, and I will not accept, the nomination of my party for another term as your president.” I was listening on the barn radio when chaos overtook the Democratic National Convention in Chicago. I was with my mom when Soviet tanks rolled into Prague over our kitchen radio.
I was thinking about the 12-year-old me. I must have been a kid-news junkie. I wonder if my parents thought I was weird caring about this stuff before I’d even discovered girls.
All these events arrived on our farm from a small number of sources. Channel 12 from Mankato was the only TV station we got. KNUJ was the only radio station anyone turned on until I discovered Twins games on WCCO. We got the New Ulm Daily Journal and the Sleepy Eye Herald Dispatch. That’s it. Nothing like the thousands of ways news comes to us today.
Books have been written about 1968. The Minnesota Historical Society has “The 1968 Exhibit” up all year. There is a bias where we think the current time, the one we are living in, is critical to our nation and the world. Given the perspective of fifty years passing, that claim holds up for 1968.
While not true mathematically, 1968 was the middle of the “Sixties.” A number of issues were colliding: civil rights, women’s rights, anti-war protests: it was as if a long burning fuse found the powder keg.
The year began with the incumbent president heavily favored to win reelection. Lyndon Johnson was a larger than life figure. He had long sought the presidency, but not the way it came to him on a plane back from Dallas in 1963. Important legislation passed during his tenure, but the conflict in Vietnam sucked more and more of his attention.
When 1968 began, a majority of Americans supported the Vietnam War. That was not true at the end of the year. In January, North Vietnam’s Tet Offensive made it clear this would not be the easy victory most had thought. In 1968, 16,899 Americans were killed, the most for any year.
Feb. 16, 1968 is another day I don’t remember. It was a Friday. I was a sixth grader in Mrs. Forster’s room. It was the last day of Gerald Milbrodt’s life, killed in Vietnam. Gerald graduated from Sleepy Eye Public in 1965. He was described by a classmate as a gentle soul and an artist. His was a life cut severely short.
For what ends? More and more Americans were asking that question. Minnesota Senator Gene McCarthy was one of the first national figures to oppose the war. His candidacy galvanized support from young people who vowed to “Get clean for Gene.” I met McCarthy later on at St. John’s University, his alma mater. Out of politics by then, he was a writer and a poet. Perhaps our nation would have benefitted from a poet in the White House.
After McCarthy finished strong in the New Hampshire primary, Johnson made his surprising announcement. Robert Kennedy entered the race along with Vice-President Hubert Humphrey. No one would emerge as a favorite until Kennedy won the California primary. That was on June 4.
Minnesota had an out-sized voice in national politics at the time. Humphrey became prominent at the 1948 Democratic Convention. As the young mayor of Minneapolis, he challenged southern delegates on civil rights, urging the party “to get out of the shadow of states’ rights and walk forthrightly into the bright sunshine of human rights.” He went on to the Senate, the Vice-Presidency, and the nomination for president in 1968. Gene McCarthy was a good friend, but tensions over Vietnam damaged their relationship.
Walter Mondale replaced his mentor Humphrey in the Senate. He also became Vice-President and nominee for president. Orville Freeman was Secretary of Agriculture when that was an important national position. These Minnesotans were influential for a couple of decades.
It is interesting to think what a Humphrey presidency might have looked like. He was called the Happy Warrior, known for his energy and joyfulness. The Vietnam War chewed up Humphrey’s career like many others.
Richard Nixon did win in 1968, setting in motion a Faustian tale that would end badly six years later. Nixon was intelligent and savvy. Between Vietnam and Watergate, he gets credit for some large accomplishments: opening up China, arms reduction with Russia, the creation of the Environmental Protection Agency. This was back when Democrats and Republicans could work together.
(I never thought I would look back nostalgically on Richard Nixon. Current circumstances compel that.)
Sociologists point to the Sixties as a time when trust in institutions declined. While there was never pure support for government, churches, and business, there was not the level of cynicism that took root and remains with us today.
You can find sentiment that things were “better” before the Sixties. Increased tolerance of drugs and sexual license came with costs. But if we go back to the Fifties we’d find racism festering in many places. Domestic abuse was tolerated. If you were gay, you were bullied and worse. It’s complicated. It’s always complicated.
The Beatles’ White Album came out that year. I would discover that much later. In 1968, I was a chubby kid with a heinie haircut, desperately uncool. I was watching Walter Cronkite, not listening to records.
Walt ended every broadcast with something like this: “And that’s the way it is, 1968. This is Walter Cronkite, CBS News; good night.”
Farming is a singular, sometimes lonely activity. That’s why we farmers talk to our cows, pigs, even our soybean plants. I recommend a good, long talk with a soybean plant. They are more reasonable than many human beings and less likely to troll you on social media.
Despite working alone, farmers historically have banded together in groups. There are the old-time farm organizations like Farm Bureau and Farmers Union. Historically the Bureau has leaned right, and the Union has leaned left. Sometimes they lean together and try not to fall over.
In recent decades, the commodity groups have come to prominence, promoting certain groups of growers. These are organizations like the National Corn Growers Association, American Dairy Association, and the Associated Rhubarb Producers. I am a member of the United Giant Ragweed Growers Association and have won several state contests in giant ragweed production.
In 2012, I was involved with the founding of a new farm organization: Producers Opposed to Obscene Payments, aka P. O. O. P. 2012 was a year of record profits in agriculture. Prices were high, yields were good, and subsidized crop insurance guaranteed healthy returns. Farming was all kinds of fun!
On top of all that, farmers were receiving large “direct payments” from the government. Li’l farmers like me were getting thousands of dollars. High-roller farmers were getting many thousands of dollars. In response to that illogical situation, POOP came into being.
These wonderfully generous payments were based on…get ready for this…nothing. Smart people had decided farm payments should be “decoupled” from prices and yield. Near as I could tell, farmers were getting the money because we’re nice guys.
During this same time, politicians were looking high and low to be sure some schmoe on welfare didn’t get a couple hundred bucks he didn’t deserve. Yet no one could figure out how to not send $5 billion to farmers, some of whom were millionaires.
POOP’s first national convention was a raucous affair. Farmers who were embarrassed by this state of affairs came from across the country. We talked about holding POOP’s inaugural gathering at some luxurious Caribbean resort and writing it off. That didn’t quite convey the message we wanted to send. So we settled on my machine shed with a couple cases of Keystone.
We chose officers, and the newly elected POOP functionaries took control of the meeting. Next order of business was writing of by-laws by a committee of in-laws, out-laws, and scoff-laws.
When it came time to deal with the issue at hand, a motion was made that farmers decline our direct payments, hoping to maintain an ounce of pride. A lengthy debate ensued that went on late into the night, well after the Keystones were gone. Finally, an alternative proposal passed. We agreed to take the money, but sheepishly and slightly embarrassed by it.
I look back on that as a missed opportunity to make a statement. You could call it a stain on POOP.
The next time POOP gathered, a new Farm Bill was in place, one without those generous Direct Payments. Heretofore future farm payments would be based on something. Only no one knew what.
Farmers could choose whether to sign up for Agriculture Risk Coverage (ARC) and Price Loss Coverage (PLC). Who better to deal with this conundrum than POOP? Again convention attendees worked late into the night. We read and reread things like:
“ARC payments for a given crop are paid when the actual county revenue for the crop falls below the County benchmark revenue guarantee. The actual County revenue is the final County FSA yield times the final MYA price. The MYA price is the national average corn or soybean price from Sept. 1 to Aug. 31. The MYA price is then “weighted” at the end of the year, based on the volume of bushels sold in each month.”
Huh? There were pages of this gobbledygook. After scratching our heads a lot, and running out of Keystones again, we decided to do what everyone else was doing. Which was signing up for ARC. Don’t ask me why.
The upshot is that as farm revenue declined, payments to farmers shrunk. That didn’t make any sense. But it reduced the need for a group of producers opposed to obscene payments. POOP went into a hiatus.
As you probably saw in the news, POOP was called into an emergency session last week. This was in response to the current state of agriculture which can best be described as “perilous.”
Prices have been in a death spiral for several years. Then they fell off a cliff when our president decided that a trade war was a good idea, announcing that “Trade wars are easy to win.” Prices went from a slow decline to a free fall. Farmers will be chewing through equity this year, which is a nice way of saying “losing money.”
As you know, farmers voted en masse for this president. The White House was not going to abandon these faithful, and it was announced the government will give farmers $12 billion dollars in aid. Since that is money the government does not have, POOP decided this qualified as an “obscene payment.”
At the POOP gathering, there was discussion about whether farmers’ affection for our 45th president was well placed. He has spent his life in New York, never done any physical work, and knows nothing about agriculture. Why do we think he represents us? Someone pointed out that he has married three models with various porn stars and Playboy bunnies in between, and that we all sort of wish we could do that. And that he calls people names like a sixth-grade bully, and we all sort of wish we could do that, too.
He promised to overturn trade agreements that have allowed United States farmers to export much of our production to the world, which he has. In addition, he offended our longtime allies, demanding they bend their policies to our wills. This conveniently ignores the fact that our country has protected sugar for decades.
So, what to do about the $12 billion being used to placate farmers? A voice in the back of the room suggested we tell the president to shove the money up…but he was hollered down. In the end we decided to take the money, but sheepishly and slightly embarrassed by it.
You’ve seen those surveys where they ask people if they could spend a day with anyone, who would they choose? Notable figures like Lincoln, Ghandi, and Einstein usually rank near the top.
I was lucky in June to spend a day with Stew Thornley. Stew would be behind Abe, Mahatma, and Albert on my list, but not too far. And he has the distinct advantage of being alive.
If you are a baseball fan, you’ve probably heard of Stew Thornley. Stew is the preeminent baseball historian in Minnesota, having written several books and numerous articles. He has been around the game in many capacities, and currently is an official scorekeeper for the Minnesota Twins.
Thornley found my name connected with Babe Ruth’s visit to Sleepy Eye in 1922. I have written about that day in my hometown’s history. Stew was doing research about ballparks in Minnesota where Ruth played on his barnstorming tours. He was excited to learn that the actual ballpark is still here.
Stew was interested in coming from the Cities to see the ballpark. He likes to make a road trip or two each summer to see town ball across Minnesota. It made sense to combine a visit with a ballgame. Or two. Or three. We found a Sunday in June where we could make a tour of Brown County baseball, taking advantage of a full day on the Tomahawk East League schedule.
We met up in Hanska where the Lakers were hosting the Essig Blue Jays. It was warmish, and we found a spot shaded by trees behind third base, joining families with their lawn chairs set up. Hanlin Field is in very nice shape. The concession stand built into the grandstand is a natural gathering spot.
Thus, began our day of watching ball and visiting about all sorts of matters. A note about watching baseball. There is no better setting for conversation than a ballgame. There are breaks interspersed with action that intermittently demands attention. Conversation can drift along about jobs, family, current events and at any moment turn back to the game. And then drift away.
Stew and I crossed paths years ago. We were both at Met Stadium on June 26, 1977. That was the memorable day when Rod Carew went over .400 and the Twins beat the White Sox 19 to 12 in front of a full house. During a radio interview a couple years ago, I found out that Stew was the infamous fan who climbed the leftfield foul pole on a dare about fifty feet in front of me. I was one of 46,000 wildly cheering him on.
Of course, I had to bring that up. Stew admitted it was not his proudest moment. He was thrown out and missed the rest of a great game. In a courtroom later that week, he was fined $25. Stew said there was snickering when the judge read aloud the incident report.
Terry Helget was at Hanska on the day we were there. Stew knew of Terry through a common umpire friend; I think Stew knows everybody. While visiting, Terry’s son Jay lined a solid hit to center. Jay is from a ball-playing family. Stew knew of the Helget legacy, so that was a good moment.
After a few innings in Hanska, we took the road north to County Road 24, which cuts through Brown County with an improbable five ballparks on its way. We stopped our cars briefly at Sigel and Stark. Then it was to Leavenworth to see Duke Cook’s Baseball Museum in the old Catholic school building. We met Scott Surprenant there.
Duke passed away in March. His museum with its delightfully random collection of baseball keepsakes lives on. Fittingly, there was a kid’s game on the neighboring ballfield and we watched that from the right field fence for a bit. Then we drove past the church and cemetery before a stop at the Leavenworth ballpark on the corner of 24 and 8.
Next up was Sleepy Eye ballpark, the same ballpark where Babe Ruth and Yankee teammate Bob Meusel played on October 16, 1922. On this day, the Indians were hosting St. James in a late afternoon game. A small storm had passed through with a quick shower, and cool air made conditions perfect.
After walking around the park and picture-taking for Stew, we made our way up to the press box. Tom Wheeler was broadcasting the game for KNUJ. Being in the booth by himself, Tom had about twenty things he was doing at one time. But he slipped a pair of headphones to Stew, and they kibitzed between pitches about the Twins, town ball, and Babe Ruth.
Denny Mangen was up in the booth operating the scoreboard. Denny is a longtime baseball volunteer, one of those people who keep the game alive in our area. A funny moment came when Denny put an error on the scoreboard on a difficult play for an infielder. Stew said almost under his breath, “Oh. That’s an error?” Scott and I looked at Denny and started laughing. He wasn’t used to having his scoring questioned by an official Major League scorekeeper.
Stew originally planned to leave for home late afternoon. When Scott mentioned that his son was playing that evening at Stark, Stew decided to extend his baseball day. So it was west and south, to see Stark host Gibbon on one of the Field of Dreams ballparks. (In the movie, corn grew beyond the outfield. In any given year, Stark, Leavenworth, Essig, Sigel, and Searles might have soybeans. It would have been less impressive for ghost-players to walk out of a soybean field, so the producer chose well.)
At Stark Stew got to meet a few of the local characters, which is half the fun at these ballparks. From our spot behind third base, we saw David Surprenant power a homerun over the leftfield fence. Scott informed us that he had homered off that pitcher late in his own career, and that this was the first pitcher he and his son had both homered off. I suggested to Stew that he add witnessing that historic homerun to his long list of baseball highlights. He agreed, maybe a bit below the World Series games.
As darkness began to fall, Stew headed home, with talk about a return date next summer to see a game at Essig and/or Springfield.
Let’s take a look at the final statistics for our day: three ballgames, five ballparks, a Hanska dog, a Starkburger, a couple of Schell’s, and lots of good conversation. I’d say that’s a win.
We’ve just completed the season’s graduation party circuit. I enjoy these rites of passage. The garage is cleaned up, all the stuff hidden away somewhere. The young man or woman is on their best behavior, trying out this new adult-thing. The parents flit about, looking harried, making sure there is enough fruit salad.
There is one set of parents who look particularly jittery. Those are the soon-to-be empty nesters. The last kid is leaving home!
A couple of decades of care and feeding of children is about to end. According to Wikipedia, “symptoms of empty nest syndrome can include depression, a sense of loss of purpose, feelings of rejection, or worry, stress, and anxiety over the child’s welfare.” Oh my. That almost makes you wish you had another kid.
We have several friends in this precarious emotional place in their lives. Our tail-ender graduated three years ago. Pam and I had to endure this treacherous ordeal, and we survived. We’re even married yet.
That is enough to make us experts. So, as a public service, Pam and I are going to be offering Empty Nester’s Camp this summer. You can sign up through Sleepy Eye Community Ed.
Many of you spent a short time with your new spouse before a baby moved in. Those years with just the two of you are a distant, smoky memory. At Empty Nester’s Camp, we’ll start up the process of getting to know your spouse again.
Men, you’re going to find your wife has grown in many ways. She is enlightened, self-reflective, and sophisticated in many ways. She has matured emotionally and grown spiritually. This may come as a surprise to some of you.
Women, you’ll find your husband’s pretty much the same slob you married thirty years ago. This may come as a surprise to some of you.
At this point of Empty Nesters Camp, we are going to break up the husbands and wives and talk to them separately:
Fellows, step over here. Guys, I know what you’re all thinking: “The kids are gone. We can have sex anytime we want!” We’re just saying you may need to lower your expectations just a bit.
Alright, wives, over here. Ladies, we know what you’re thinking: “The kids are gone. We can get all those fix-up projects done around the house! Every room can get painted and all the furniture can get rearranged!” We’re just saying you may need to lower your expectations just a bit.
Okay, let’s get everybody back together now. There are positives about sending the last kid packing. One of them is not waiting up at night worrying about them. Those sleepless nights wondering what kind of trouble they are in are hard on parents. Now they will be off at college, spending their evenings studying, reading assigned books, and writing essays. Just keep that image in your head. Try not to think about your own first year in college, partying, avoiding arrest, and sleeping through first hour class.
Another positive for empty nesters is you can have the TV again. No more hours of Disney Channel and Animal Planet. Some things have changed since you brought the first baby home and turned on Barney. You now have 500 channels. There’s still nothing on.
You won’t have to have Oreos, Nacho Cheese-Flavored Doritos, and cookie-dough ice cream on hand to feed hordes of teenagers who descend on the house. You can stock the kitchen with fresh fruits and vegetables, raw nuts, and whole grain pasta. (Of course, each of you will sneak Doritos on your way home from work. But you don’t have to tell your spouse. Unless they ask what those orange crumbs on the car seat are. If they ask, go with plausible deniability.)
You won’t have to hide the vodka bottle. No more worrying about your minor taking out half the vodka and replacing it with water. As a matter of fact, you can just let the bottle set out on the cupboard. What the heck, throw a jigger in your orange juice. You’ve earned it.
If you’ve been parenting, you’ve probably had some combination of goldfish/canary/gerbil/hamster/guinea pig in the house. At some point, one of your kids wanted one of these dear creatures “more than anything in the world!” If you’re fortunate, the demise of these pets coincides with the departure of your last kid from home. If you are not so lucky, please resist the temptation to induce such a demise. Better to find a niece or nephew who wants a pet more than anything in the world.
As part of reclaiming your life as an empty nester, you can look forward to new hobbies. You’re still you’ve got some good years left in you. Plus, you’ve raised your kids; you aren’t quite so needed any more. You can take some risks. That is why Pam has taken up base jumping and I am doing cliff diving. These are not things we would have done when the burden of child-rearing rested on our shoulders.
We need to warn you about something here. Don’t get too comfortable with your quieter, cleaner house. This generation of kids is known as the Boomerang Generation. They might be back. You can change the locks, but they probably know how to get in one of the ground floor windows. The only fool-proof way to prevent boomeranging is to move and not tell them. We’re not recommending that but be prepared.
There will be a lot less drama in your empty nest-house. No more hearing about the cool kids, the geeks, the bullies, the jocks, the teachers who don’t like them, the former girlfriend/boyfriend who didn’t understand them, and the current girlfriend/boyfriend who doesn’t understand them? You might find yourself missing all the drama of the teen years. If so, go rent a couple seasons of “Lost” and “Twin Peaks.”
When the last kid leaves this fall, you might find yourself actually missing the buggers. If so, we recommend the purchase of a Teenage Noise Machine. You can get one on Amazon. Turn that on for a few hours each day as you wean yourself from kids in the house. The Teenage Noise Machine will play music that is ear-wrenchingly awful. When you ask it to do something, it will make various grunting sounds. Once a day it will tell you that their friends get to stay out later, so why can’t they.
After completing Empty Nesters Camp, you will receive a certificate from Community Ed that says you are ready to face this new phase in life. Enjoy it before the grandkids show up.
242 years old is a ripe old age for a country. There’s some graying on the edges and a few wrinkles. We’ve been battling a recent bout of dysfunctionality. But we’ve gotten through worse.
I am a son, a husband, a father, a Catholic, a farmer. You have your own list. We all share that we are Americans. (Really, the billion people who live in North and South America are all “Americans.” But we like to use it to reference us United States of Americans, and I will do that here.)
I came of age during Vietnam and Watergate. There was plenty of attention paid to our nation’s blemishes. It was easy to get caught in that current. At the same time, I could look around and see good and decent people doing their best every day. I came to see America was a reflection of her citizens: generally good but flawed, well-meaning but imperfect.
As I aged, my appreciation for this country deepened. I have thought about what it means to be patriotic. When our kids were young, we would attend Memorial Day services at the cemeteries in town. I thought it valuable that they see patriotism as shown on the faces of the veterans there.
That was echoed later when we attended our son’s graduation from National Guard Basic Training at Fort Benning, Georgia. The young men in his platoon were from all over the country, a mix of skin colors. They were willing to do whatever the country asked, likely too young to fully comprehend their selflessness. As the soldiers marched on to the field led by the flag, one couldn’t help but be moved.
In sorting out patriotism in my mind, I always come to two things that are at the foundation of this country. First, we’ve been more or less successful at mixing together groups from all over the world. Second, everyone has the opportunity to succeed. Those two things aren’t to be taken for granted. They are what makes America, America.
One needs only read the news to see that people don’t live peacefully in lots of places on Earth. Here, we hold out as an ideal the notion that we can get along with people of other origins, religions, and races, even if we fall short sometimes.
It is a grand ideal that needs constant honing. Wave after wave of people came to these shores. Often they were met with antagonism. My Catholic and German ancestors were scorned by some. (Perhaps if Native American tribes would have adapted a stricter immigration policy, those conflicts could have been avoided.)
People still come, attracted by the things our nation stands for. It might be helpful to remember that few of our ancestors came as “legal” immigrants. They simply came. Often they were the poor and the powerless. It is much the same with current immigrants. “Huddled masses yearning to breathe free” continue to come.
The other essential quality of America is that opportunity is given to all. That is also something we must guard. We know wealth is being concentrated in fewer hands. An upper class is okay, so long as all children be given the chance to achieve. That means good schools and some sort of baseline of care be available to each child. With these, they can go chase the American dream.
My own small-town models the American story. The earliest settlers of the Sleepy Eye were British descendants looking for opportunities on the western frontier. The surrounding farms were settled by German immigrants, many coming to escape ongoing wars in Europe. Within a generation or two, many of the original business owners had moved on. Children of the German farmers moved into town and took over the businesses. When I was young, diversity meant Catholics and Lutherans living in harmony.
In the Eighties, Latino families began arriving in Sleepy Eye. Local family sizes were declining, and there was need for workers at Del Monte and on farms. It was the free market working. The first groups were migrant workers who left after harvest was done, returning to the South for winter work.
That gradually changed. Latinos began to stay and become part of the community. Sleepy Eye was behind towns like Madelia and St. James in this demographic trend. But there is a well-established population here now.
As is always true in these movements, there were tensions. There were a few bad actors among the Latinos, about the same percentage I suppose that is in any group. I wouldn’t have any trouble naming some bad actors among the fair-skinned German descendants.
The new people in town are after the same things most everyone is after: a chance to make a living and raise a family in a safe place. In a dynamic economy, they have taken jobs that needed filling. It’s possible that BIC Graphic, Schwartz Farms, and Christensen Farms would be here without that inflow of Latinos. But they likely would have struggled to find adequate labor.
The number of Latino kids in our schools has grown. My own kids have Latino friends. As happens with every wave, the next generation mixes. Latino children may have grandparents in Texas, but Sleepy Eye is their home. The generation after that won’t even be aware there was a group that came first and a group that came later.
At risk of generalizing, there are things I enjoy about the Latinos in Sleepy Eye. They have big families who like to hang out together. They are outside whenever the weather allows. They like to gather in our parks and celebrate for lots of reasons. They play music and sometimes even have their car windows open. In these ways, they are like people in the World That I Grew Up In.
Our leaders have often echoed the words of John Winthrop, who in 1630 said that our nation had a special destiny, that it was a shining “city upon a hill.”
Ronald Reagan said in his farewell address, “I’ve spoken of the Shining City all my political life. In my mind it is a tall, proud city built on rocks stronger than oceans, windswept, God-blessed, and teeming with people of all kinds living in harmony and peace. And if there had to be city walls, the walls had doors and the doors were open to anyone with the will and the heart to get here.”
There have always been soulless people who want an America where everyone looks like them; they want to pull up the drawbridge once they are in. That is not Sleepy Eye’s story, and it is not America’s story. Sleepy Eye is a better place because of the Latinos. It is what we celebrate tomorrow.
by Randy Krzmarzick
It is often said that baseball is a game of failure as much as success. Anyone who has played has cringe-worthy memories of striking out at a key moment. It is also a game that can be reduced to numbers that often don’t tell whole stories.
Sleepy Eye’s greatest baseball player pitching brilliantly at higher and higher levels in the Fifties. At the end of it, came these numbers: 0-3-3-1-0. Zero innings, three hits, three runs, one walk, and zero strikeouts. There is so much to Fred Bruckbauer’s amazing baseball career and successful life. But in the small, yet exaggerated world of Major League Baseball, there is 0-3-3-1-0.
On April 25, 1961, Fred pitched one time for the Minnesota Twins in Kansas City. This was in the team’s first season here after moving from Washington. It was one of the first ever televised Twins games. My older brother Dale had played ball with Fred. He and some of their teammates gathered at our house to watch that night, excited to see their buddy on the black and white set.
Fred came in to pitch in the fourth inning with the Twins behind 7 to 2. A double by Dick Howser, single by Jay Hankins, a walk to Jerry Lumpe, and double to Lou Klimchok. And Bruckbauer was replaced by Chuck Stobbs. That was it.
Let’s back the story up. Frederick John Bruckbauer was born to Wendelin and Delores on May 27, 1938 in New Ulm. My dusty old Baseball Encyclopedia lists birthplaces of every Major League player. Unfortunately, there is no mention of Sleepy Eye where Fred grew up.
Fred was an extraordinary athlete at St. Mary’s High School, All-Conference in football and basketball. It was on the baseball diamond where Fred truly excelled. Under coach Moe Moran, the Knights went to the Catholic State Tournament in ’54, ’55, and ’56. Fred was good enough as a teenager to pitch summers for the Sleepy Eye Indians town team and later for the New Ulm Brewers.
Bruckbauer received a scholarship to the University of Minnesota. At the time, the Gophers were one of the elite baseball programs in the nation under coach Dick “Chief” Siebert. When Fred took the mound for the U, he immediately became their ace. With a 15 and 3 record, Bruckbauer led the Gophers to Big Ten titles in 1958 and 1959. His winning percentage is still among the best ever for the Gophers.
Fred’s parents, Wendy and Delores, would drive up to Minneapolis to see their son pitch those years. Sometimes Delores stayed in the car listening to the game on the radio, too nervous to watch her boy pitch.
Fred was All-American in 1959. Pro scouts were attending his every game. This was before Major League Baseball had a draft, and scouts competed to sign talent. Fred had interest from St. Louis, Baltimore, Washington, and Detroit. Coach Siebert hated to lose Bruckbauer for his senior year, but he knew Fred had to take one of the offers.
With his father advising him (this was before agents), Fred was drawn to Angelo Giuliani who worked for the Washington Senators. In June of 1959, Fred and his dad flew to Washington. There Fred pitched well in a practice game against minor leaguers. The next day Fred signed the largest bonus contract that Senators’ owner Calvin Griffith had ever given: $30,000 paid out over three years.
The Senators sent Bruckbauer to Appleton, Wisconsin to pitch in the Three I League. Despite his late arrival, he led the league in shutouts (4) and posted a 12 and 5 record with 2.89 ERA. He made the All-Star team and won Rookie of the Year honors. That winter Fred returned to Sleepy Eye to marry his high school sweetheart Kathy Olson. Life was good.
Going into the 1960 season, Fred was one of the top prospects in all of baseball. He reported to spring training among a corps of young pitchers considered the future of the Senators. The group included Jim Kaat and Jack Kralick, names that Twins fans would come to know. Manager Cookie Lavagetto was “smitten with Bruckbauer’s potential.”
After successful outings against the Braves and White Sox, Griffith and Lavagetto came to the clubhouse to inform Fred he would be in the Senator’s starting rotation. Unfortunately, the Baseball Gods had other plans. That very day, Fred had felt a tug in that highly valued arm. He didn’t think much of it. No one knew it then, but his arm would never be the same. Fred said later, “I don’t remember doing anything, but my fastball was more or less gone.”
There are no Baseball Gods. You’re excused for thinking there are if you ever played the game. It was likely that Bruckbauer had a torn or frayed rotator cuff. Today, surgery quite possibly would have allowed Fred to have a long major league career. We are left to imagine him pitching many seasons at Met Stadium.
While there were not modern surgical techniques 58 years ago, there was cortisone. Cortisone was new and considered a wonder. Its limitations were yet to be discovered. Over the next two years, Fred was given many injections. He had so many cortisone shots that Fred carried a welt on his shoulder the rest of his life. It allowed him to fight through pain and keep pitching, but never at the level of before.
The Senators/Twins were desperate to get a return on their investment. I talked to Fred once, and he told about the extreme measures the team went through to get that arm healthy. They even had his tonsils removed based on one doctor’s questionable advice.
Instead of going to Washington, Fred was sent to Charlotte in the South Atlantic League. Now Fred and Kathy were a team, and she went, too. Their son Terry was born that summer in North Carolina. Kathy would be the rock that Fred leaned on as he struggled to right his career, and really the 48 years of their marriage.
Although the fast ball was never as fast and the curve ball never as sharp, Fred had some success. When in October it was announced that the Senators were moving to Minnesota, there was a lot of buzz in Brown County about the local boy being part of that team. At a banquet that winter at the DelRoy in Sleepy Eye, Fred signed a ceremonial contract with team officials in front a big crowd.
Bruckbauer was still considered a top prospect in 1961. He was listed with Carl Yastrzemski and Billy Williams as “players to watch” by The Sporting News. Fred knew things were not right, though. “I was just saying a few prayers hoping it would get well. So was the team.”
Throwing with guile and smarts, Bruckbauer had a smattering of success that spring, enough to make the roster for the first Twins team. Fred got his one and only chance that April evening. He faced four batters, and 0-3-3-1-0 later he left the game. The Twins would go on to lose 20 to 2 to the A’s, a game none of us would remember otherwise.
Fred called Kathy that night. All the Twin City newspapers had contacted her to get her reaction. Kathy told her husband, “Things will get better.” And their life would, but not his baseball career.
In May, the Twins sent Fred to Syracuse. Again, there were flashes of success. Finally, the next spring, Fred told the club, “I need to quit and get on with my life. This isn’t going to work.” Calvin Griffith tried to convince him to stay. But Fred returned to his young family in Sleepy Eye, ready for life after baseball.
Fred finished his degree at Mankato State, then taught a year in Mankato. Then came a job offer from the John Deere Company. He would work for John Deere for almost forty years. Eighteen of those were spent in Great Falls, Montana, the rest in Holmen, Wisconsin. Later the Bruckbauers retired to Naples, Florida. Fred passed away in 2007, Kathy in 2016.
Fred and Kathy raised four children who are scattered across the country now. I talked to Sandy in Orlando and Terry in Seattle. They had wonderful things to say about their parents. Sandy said all the kids played a little ball, but no one stuck with it. “They just encouraged us in whatever we wanted to do. Our parents were always there for us.”
Fred loved the outdoors. Hunting and fishing became his passions. Terry has great memories of his dad taking him out of school for ventures throughout Montana. Terry said Fred never expressed any regrets about baseball. “Dad never let things bother him much. That’s probably what made him such a good pitcher; he could always move on.”
Fred Bruckbauer was Sleepy Eye’s star, and his baseball career was a shooting star that blazed across the sky. But it is Fred’s effort and dedication as husband to Kathy and father to Terry, Debbie, Sandy, and Amy that is the constellation that continues to shine.
So, I got “the call.” One of my favorite columnists, Randy Krzmarzick, called and asked if I’d write a column for him while he gets busy in the fields this spring, assuming spring would ever come. Randy gets these column breaks every spring and fall like Joe Mauer gets a “scheduled day off.” Minus the 23.5 million dollar a year contract.
Now I have to admit, I don’t get nervous much, but a little kaleidoscope of butterflies fluttered in my upper gastrointestinal tract as I replied, ”YES!”. After hanging up, it dawned on me that Randy’s readers may NOT want a pinch hitter. Being a fan of his, I forgot to think about having to sit in for his other fans who paid good money and look forward to his every other Wednesday Weeds. I’m picturing them with their morning’s first cup of joe, opening The Journal to get their bi-weekly dose of Weeds. It’s a bit intimidating to view myself as Moonlight Graham pinch hitting for Harmon Killebrew.
For those who don’t know me, I am a baseball lover, fan, and player who happens to do chiropractic for a living. One of my earliest recollections came from my neighbor Elsie Beech saying, “That kid has been playing baseball ever since he was knee high to a grasshopper.”
My grandfather Harry Dieltz was a local baseball-legend in western Wisconsin. I remember him sticking his finger hard into my adolescent sternum and sternly saying, “Don’t you EVER let a woman come between you and baseball.” So, I married a baseball gal (actor, director, and teacher) from a baseball (tight knit, loving, wholesome, farm) family. Sandy and I started our own team and it’s been “PLAY BALL!” ever since.
Spring was a long time coming this year. Nonetheless, thinking of spring brings to mind the usual budding of the trees, the singing and return of the migrating birds (especially the baseball birds: the Cardinals, Blue Jays and Orioles), the cool of the morning, and the warmth of the mid-day air. But this time of year also includes baseball for me. Hey, after all, they call it Spring Training!
Reflecting on my youth in the late Sixties and Seventies, baseball ties in with the first signs of spring. The smell of the leather glove, the feel of the bat in your hands, the sound of the ball cracking the mitt, the taste of salty peanuts and sunflower seeds, the sight and smell of freshly cut green grass, the smell of hot dogs, brats, and burgers on the grill all indicated that baseball, I mean spring, was here.
During school days, just as the first robin arrived, came the announcement from some kid that baseball cards were here! There was only one card company back then, appropriately named Topps. There was the anticipation for the day of school to be over, and then racing to the grocery store or Ben Franklin as soon as humanly possible to see what this year’s cards looked like.
“Will I get any Twins?” We would scrape up our allowance, lawn mowing, and paper route money to buy ten-cent packs of cards: ten pieces of cardboard heaven and one stick of the best tasting five-minute bubble gum ever known to man. Those first couple days would mean a hoard of banana bikes crowding the entry ways and sidewalks of those businesses. Many kids would stand around opening their packs and announcing, “I GOT A TWIN!“ Then someone else, “I GOT CAREW!” Of course, we all had to look and see what those cards looked like and then turn jealous. The feeling of lottery success came when you bagged your favorite players.
Later, after opening many packs, you would hear kids say “Got ‘em, got’em, need ‘em, got ‘em”. “Got ‘em” meant you had doubles or triples, stock for trading with your friends. It was a sin of card collecting to clothes-pin your baseball cards to the bike spokes (that’s what a deck of playing cards was for) or to scratch out or draw on cards, especially to indicate that a player was traded to another team. Old shoe boxes housed your cards, and many tightly rubber banded them together in teams. I never met a card I didn’t like.
Early spring in my youth meant the return of bikes out and about. In those days it was safe to bike anywhere. Our bikes were our transportation and you were sure to find a good majority of those bikes with baseball gloves hanging over the handle bars. We would ride about town looking to join any of the neighborhood games. There were games to be found all over town. Games of Wiffle ball, 500, tenny ball, hot box, pitcher-catcher, rubber coated and “real” baseball games. Our stadiums were back yards, empty lots, city parks, school yards, and even ball parks.
Teams were picked by the “captains” (the oldest players) and everyone played who wanted to. Umpires were usually the captains. “Knobs” indicated who would have “first ups.” Knobs meant a bat was thrown in the air from one captain to the other. Once caught by the handle, alternating captain’s hands gripped their way to the top. The last one holding the knob had to spin it overhead and around in succession 3 times without dropping the bat. Then they would get to decide who’s up first.
Even if no one else was around, the back steps to the house made for a perfect catcher. The return of the ball off the steps made for a surprise pop fly, grounder, or occasional line shot right back to you. A good sturdy wall somewhere was second best. Garage roofs let a pop fly roll back down to be caught.
Spring ending? That’s easy. School was over, and the nanosecond that happened summer started. “Mom? Can we stay up late tonight? There’s no school tomorrow!”
In the movie Field of Dreams, Moonlight Graham steps off the ballfield and into reality, outside of the markings of the diamond. He helps a choking girl who’s fallen. The father of the girl says, “Thank you, Doc.” Moonlight turns to the father who brought young Archibald “Moonlight” Graham to the dream baseball field and says “No, son…thank you.”
This may be my only chance to “pinch hit” for one of my favorite columnists. So, I tip my cap and say, “Thank You, Randy.” Hope I didn’t strike out!
This is a love story.
Oh, it hasn’t always been easy. There’s been stress along the way. Both sides had to give a little to make it work. But in the end, they have always been there when I needed them.
Of course, I’m talking about my relationship with my implement dealer. Pam and I have been married 37 years. Miller Sellner Implement and I go back further than that, really as long as I can remember.
Farmers know that we depend on businesses in town. In a long farming career, a long list has helped me: Westside Garage, Sleepy Eye Repair, Braun Oil, Davy Haala’s welding shop, Donny Haala’s welding shop, Hose/McCabe’s Hardware, some that are gone, and some I’ve missed.
For farmers, our focus is the soil and the plants we are growing. But it is our machines that get most of our attention. Those are the tools we use to work the soil and tend those plants. Keeping them running well is vital when timing is everything. That’s where Miller Sellner comes in.
I’m a little mechanical, able to do basic maintenance. I’ve surprised myself with what I can fix lying on my back in the dirt looking up at some machine with a flashlight, a Vice-Grip, and rain in the forecast. But a lot of my serious mechanical work has been done by the fellows at Miller Sellner.
When our kids were young, Miller Sellner was the “Red Tractor Store.” Across Highway 4 was the “Green Tractor Store,” aka Bruggeman Implement. I had friends at the Green Tractor Store and did some business there. But I grew up with International Harvester red. John Deere green was like the National League: strange and a little exotic.
My father Sylvester’s relationship with Miller Sellner went back to its ancestral roots as Evan Implement. He told me about purchasing our Farmall Super H tractor before I was born. (We still have the H!) He and Art Miller were close on a deal but had to visit the Evan tavern to finalize it over several drinks. A different era for sure.
My dad was one of the great hagglers of his time, always able to extract a final few dollars in any deal. I was not endowed with that skill. When making a purchase from a Miller Sellner salesman, I would ask near the end of bargaining, “Okay, what’s the price if I go and get my dad?” Now I conclude with, “If Sylvester was living, what would the price be then?”
Evan Implement became Miller Sellner Implement in 1963 when the business moved to Sleepy Eye. The new store was owned by Art’s son Bud Miller and Norb Sellner. We’re now a couple generations of Millers and Sellners later, and the business has been added onto a few times. Now it’s a goodly hike from the combine door to the sales offices. Unfortunately if one is in a hurry, it’s about five-conversations-long,
When Norb passed away in 1978, his boys Jerry, Dave, and Vince took various roles. Jerry ran the parts department for years and still helps there. There was a time when Jerry knew instantly where every part was and its number. This was for a prodigious number of parts from a half-century’s worth of equipment. “Jerry, I need a gas cap for the H.” Even though they hadn’t sold a gas cap for an H in ten years, Jerry would say, “That’s a 647B39; it’s over on the shelf by the wall.”
Dave managed the repair shop and has the same capacity to understand decades of machines. Repairmen specialize in certain types of implements. Dave specializes in everything near as I can tell. If I had anything odd to fix, I took it to Dave. I have gone to him with a chain saw, weed whipper, battery charger, Knipco heater, and a toaster. Okay, maybe not the toaster.
Dave’s wife Kathy just retired after manning the phones for years. “Hello, Miller Sellner, this is Kathy speaking.” I would ask Kathy for a combine guy, a tractor guy, or a parts guy. She knew my voice and often the particular predicament I was in. When I called and didn’t hear that reassuring voice, I think I was silent, basically dumbfounded. Julie doesn’t know my voice, but once I’ve worked through a crisis or two with her that’ll probably change.
Miller Sellner has been a constant in my career. But like Kathy retiring, things change. This spring I came in the shop door where three of the young mechanics were talking. I said to them, “When did you all get so young? I thought all the mechanics were old when I started farming. What happened?”
You can count on Miller Sellner being open long hours in the spring and fall. Basically any time I needed something, they were open. I’m pretty sure Jerry lived there. They still have long hours. But wanting their employees to sleep, they are a little more structured now. A few years ago, on a Sunday night during harvest, close to midnight, I drove there for some part. They were closed. I came home and told Pam I’d seen something I’d never seen before.
Through the years, much good humor has flown about the parts counter. Some of the funniest lines I’ve heard have come from Jeff, Lloyd, Dan, et al. For us farmers who are all living and working in our own worlds, Miller Sellner becomes a gathering place. We’re all doing the same work at the same time, often breaking the same things. The employees at Miller Sellner are part time therapists. It comes from dealing with hundreds of panicky farmers. The parts guys haven’t had specific training in psychology, but they are skilled at talking hyperventilating farmers down from the ledge.
Miller Sellner Implement has gotten lots of my dollars through the years. In exchange, they have had parts and did repairs when I needed them. Often someone helped well past normal business hours. But then, farming is not a normal business. There have been late nights, early mornings, and weekends when a mechanic and a parts guy raced to get me going.
That service has often been exceptional. A large number of cousins, sons of cousins, and now sons of sons of cousins work there. But I’m sure the same service is available to non-relatives. (I do have one secret to staying in the good graces of the Miller Sellner gang. Every November, at the end of harvest, I deliver several cases of beer as a thank you for services rendered. Keep that quiet, though.)
I’m hopeful this love story goes on for many more harvests.
I suppose it’s possible live a good life and not like baseball. At least that’s what I hear. Most of my friends are fans though. I have different groups of “baseball buddies:’’ some I played with, others I go to games with, and some I just enjoy talking ball with.
One of my best baseball buddies passed away in March. Donald Cook was 89; everyone knew him as “Duke.” I first got to know Duke back in the Seventies when I was playing and coaching. Many conversations about softball/baseball, farming, and life followed. I’ll miss those talks.
The last one was at Oak Hills Living Center in New Ulm a few days before Duke died. Scott Surprenant and I went to see him. I don’t always get things right, but that visit was one time I did. Duke was frail and bound to bed. But he was able to talk with us. I guess we all knew we were saying “good bye,” although no one said that. He smiled when I took the baseball that was on the nightstand and suggested we go have a game of catch.
Duke was a gentle spirit. I really don’t recall him raising his voice. That isn’t to say certain things didn’t upset him. We occasionally delved into politics, and he had a way of scrunching his face that told you he wasn’t too pleased with some turn of events.
I missed most of Duke’s playing career. That began as a boy with Mulligan in the Brown County League. There were seasons with Leavenworth and Comfrey. Later, Duke played fastpitch softball when those games drew big crowds to small towns. Duke played two seasons in the semi-pro Western Minny League with his brother Mel. Mel was an all-star slugging outfielder; Duke was more of a role player.
The brothers were close beyond the ballpark. They farmed together, growing and selling seed under the Cook Brothers Seed label. Duke and Mel were of that Greatest Generation of farmers who crossed from horses to tractors, bridging World Wars and a moon landing.
Duke and Mel grew up on the farm following sports by vacuum tube radio and newspaper. They played every game they could. There was even a Leavenworth hockey team that played on area sloughs. Farm kids were clad in homemade catalog-pads to protect their shins.
Duke joined the Marines in the Fifties. This was at the height of baseball’s popularity and the soldiers played ball wherever he was stationed. He told about teaching the game to Japanese players on a tour of duty across the Pacific.
I did get to play a few games with Duke. Ten or so years ago, a group of locals played the St. Paul Quicksteps at Fort Ridgely and Sleepy Eye Ballpark. These were a demonstration of 1860’s “base ball.” There are no gloves. The pitcher or “striker” throws underhanded. If a ball is caught on one bounce, the batter was out. Duke was our catcher, and a number of foul hits bounced to him that he caught for outs. We named Duke our MVP, not bad for a fellow near 80.
It won’t be as a player that Duke will be remembered though. In 1964, a group of girls wanted to start a Leavenworth softball team and asked Duke if he would coach. He said yes. That “yes” began a remarkable half century of coaching and organizing leagues.
In 1972, Congress passed Title IX of the Education Act. That began the process of giving girls the opportunity to play sports that we take for granted now. This area was way ahead of the curve. Duke was a big part of that.
Duke was a very good coach. His teams were always well-prepared and usually successful. A 1977 newspaper article referred to a fifty-game winning streak his Leavenworth Bi-County team had.
Around then, I coached the Prairieville girls team. We were pretty good, winning more than we lost. We never beat Leavenworth. There was a tournament in Comfrey when my Prairieville team beat some good teams to make the championship game on a Sunday night. The girls were excited and recruited all their friends and relatives to come watch.
Unfortunately, the opponent was Leavenworth. The score ended up something like 30 to 2. Afterward, in his humble and affable way, Duke came over and congratulated our team and told me how nervous he was to play us. I may have been grimacing, but my girls loved him.
In his later years, Duke continued to help out whenever he could. Phil Siefkes and I coached an ASA team that our daughters played on. We loved having Duke on the bench with us. He had about 10,000 games under his belt and had seen everything.
A lot of us coach our kids, and that is important part of passing on our games to a next generation. There are a few people who are involved not out of parental obligation, but for love of the game. Duke was one of those. Of course, like any good coach, Duke’s greatest gift was never teaching skills. It was understanding that life lessons can be learned in practice and in games.
When I did research for an exhibit on local baseball at the Brown County Historical Society, I recruited a committee of area “historians.” Duke and Mel were part of that. I remember going to their farm to do an oral history and being enthralled by their recollections of pasture ball in the Forties. Not only games and scores, but what it looked like and sounded like and felt like to spend a Sunday afternoon at Billy Groebner’s pasture where huge crowds of farm families would gather.
I’m going to miss those memories and keen recollections. Duke was telling me once about Ted Williams’ visit to Springfield in 1938. His Minneapolis Millers team played the Springfield Tigers as part of Sauerkraut Days. Duke was ten years old. He told me the count on Williams when he hit a deep triple late in the game. This was 75 years ago; he knew the count!
Last winter, our oldest Anna was home visiting. She went in to Schutz Foods to get something. When she got home she told me she had seen Duke there. Anna played for Duke 25 years ago. Duke asked her, “You’re Anna, Randy’s daughter?” When Anna said yes, Duke replied with a twinkle in his eye, “Oh good, I got one right.”
Often when someone close to us passes, we like to say they are in heaven engaging in some Earthly activity that they enjoyed. I don’t know the accuracy of those claims; they may be more to comfort the surviving. But if Duke is playing catch somewhere in the beyond right now, that’d be okay.
Each of us will spend part of each day sleeping, eating, and basic chores. School or job consume time. If we have children or other caretaking responsibilities, those are necessary and will change through our lives.
That leaves not a lot of hours at our disposal. This is where we decide how much to be involved with the world out there. Here’s where I carve out time for church things and groups like the Food Shelf and Farmers Union. When the kids were around, I put in time chaperoning, coaching, selling concessions, all the stuff you sign up for when you have a kid.
These are our volunteer hours. We hope we are doing some good. Some of these activities we choose deliberately. Others are handed to us. Others grab us by the collar and won’t let go. Trying to save a golf course was one of those.
You might know I was involved with the attempt to preserve the golf course at Fort Ridgely State Park. It consumed a large swath of my life for 15 months. In the end, we lost. Oddly, I don’t regret the effort. If “life is a journey, not a destination,” this was an interesting side path.
A brief recap: March 2016, the Friends of Fort Ridgely board was told the 90-year-old golf course was closing. And there would be no discussion. Except a lot of us thought that was a bad idea. Months were spent trying to get a few people in St. Paul to change their minds. When that went nowhere, efforts turned toward local citizens operating the course. That was designed to go through the City of Fairfax at no cost to them. That plan crashed and burned when two City Councilors withdrew their support.
I am not much of a golfer. I like to say I am a good golfer if I don’t count the bad shots. But I had in mind golfing as I got older. I saw myself spending pleasant summer days walking nine holes at Fort Ridgely, trying to not lose too many balls. I felt like something was being taken from me. Beyond that, it just seemed senseless to destroy an existing asset that was in such wonderful condition.
I’m not sure exactly how I became so involved. There was a public meeting after the announcement where 120 people came to express their displeasure. I spoke out there. Soon I was getting calls from others of like mind. Gradually a group of us moved into the center of our large circle.
I think I speak for all of us in the fray, that we would not have kept on keeping on if we didn’t feel the support we did. Literally hundreds of people called or stopped me on the street to say they appreciated what we were doing. I’ve been involved in issues which meant working with two sides. Here, everyone was on our side. (Well, everyone except the few people who mattered.)
Pam will tell you that her primary view of me for weeks was walking through the house with a phone affixed to the side of my head. If cell phones cause brain cancer, I am doomed. I talked to government officials, legislators, reporters, radio stations, golfers, people who never held a club, old friends, new friends, and probably a few people who thought I was nuts.
Immediate appeals to powers-that-be fell on deaf ears, or closed ears. Where does one turn next? “Call your legislator,” was all I could think to tell people.
We are always told to “call your legislator.” And usually it doesn’t make a difference. It was heartening to see legislators of both parties rally with us. In an ultra-partisan political climate, we found an issue where there was no aisle. I will forever be grateful to Gary Dahms, Paul Torkelson, Clark Johnson, Kathy Sheran, Tim Miller, Andrew Lang and some I’m missing.
Some interesting philosophical discussions were ignited by our golf course. Where does power lie? Is it with citizens and our representatives? Or is it with agencies only distantly responsive to taxpayers? I’m afraid the answer to that is murky.
There were Friends meetings, committee meetings, public meetings, and meetings about meetings. Often the post-meeting was at the Frontier Bar in Fairfax. The story of the Revolutionary War can be told in the taverns of Boston and Philadelphia. The Frontier Bar became our Old South Meeting House.
People in the campaign came and went as schedules allowed and fervor waxed and waned. Looking back, it was invigorating to work with so many united to a singular cause. We constantly were picking each other up and dusting each other off. Any mention of names would be incomplete, but here are a representative few:
Loran Kardaal had lots going on in his life, but as they say, “If you need something done, ask a busy person.” Mark Tjosaas loves that state park more than anyone on Earth; it was his career and his avocation. Dan Brinkman wears his heart on his sleeve, and it’s a big heart. Same for Dave Nelson, who has given many days of his life to aiding Fort Ridgely.
Bernadette Herzog and Tom Otto got involved, each having spent hours on the course with friends and not wanting to let that go. They are extremely talented and had me believing that our little band of citizens could have succeeded at operating the course. In Fairfax, Marcia Seibert-Volz and Lois Gilles were a joy to work with.
In September, I was driving by Fort Ridgely one evening before dark. I decided to see what remained of the golf course. It was my first time there since being a volunteer-mower back in June when we still had hopes of saving it.
September had been rainy, and the course was green, albeit scruffy looking. If you squinted your eyes, it looked as if a couple days of mowing and “Let’s play golf!” Of course, that wasn’t the case. The perfect greens that were part of the two-million-dollar renovation were beyond repair. I sat on the bench overlooking the 8th hole, the signature hole with a deep ravine between the tee and the green.
My mind went back to a meeting in Fairfax. Ryan Braulick spoke eloquently and emotionally about time he had spent with his father there and time he hoped to spend with his young children.
I flashed back to my last day golfing there with Dan, Dave Mecklenburg, and Bedloe Eckstein. Butterflies flitted above the wildflowers bordering the fairways. Bluebirds and swallows darted here and there. The golf was secondary to the nature, yet part and parcel to it.
I wondered if it was silly to feel sad. I thought I’ve had less rational emotions. I wished I was golfing with Ryan and Dan and Dave and Bedloe instead of sitting among the overgrown grass and weeds.
