The 'Great Sconnie Commuter Secret

...and other reasons we will be watching the Stillwater Bridge lawsuit results.

Yes, it's true. We have a lack of quality jobs in Western Wisconsin. Maybe it's because of our affection for anything "Big Time" - a former local Mayor once declared a city holiday when a McDonalds opened in his river town eight years ago - or maybe it's because the State of Minnesota has decided that the World We Pay Attention To ends at the St. Croix River. Or maybe there's just not enough of us to justify working, living wages (Polk County's unemployment rates are traditionally among the highest in the Midwest.)

Regardless of why, until the recent housing meltdown/collapse, parts of the region (St. Croix County, specifically) were among the fastest growing areas in the Midwest, and ranked pretty high, nationally, as well.

Hence the long, drawn out fight for a new Stillwater Bridge (aka "The St. Croix River Crossing Project") which officially goes back nearly SIXTY years!

In an interview several years ago, current District 30 legislator Kitty Rhoades (R-Hudson) made her pitch for the new bridge, and brought up how some of the first correspondence on the need for a replacement to the venerable Lift Bridge would be needed soon.

"That first letter to the State Highway Commissioner was written the month I was born, April 1951!" She said without battling an eyelash on the obvious mathematical-age-determining-formula she handed me.

"And now I'm bombarded with AARP literature!"

Rep. Rhoades has joined forces with all Western Wisconsin legislators, and numerous Minnesotans, of all flavors, ages and parties in pushing for a new bridge, yesterday.

Several false starts along the way have seen the costs of the project mushroom from "several million dollars" in the early Sixties, to reports of almost $700 million today. But the real "fly in the ointment" in the past decade-and-a-half was a successful Sierra Club/National Park Service lawsuit in 1996 that sent the whole project back to Zero.

That lawsuit forced the creation of a group of so-called "Stakeholders" - ranging from local and state governments from both sides of the river, to environmental and transportation groups, as well as DNR and National Parks Service interests (The St. Croix Riverway is a Scenic National Riverway) to weigh-in on the most recent incarnation of a bridge, approved in a memorandum of Understanding by the Feds in

The NPS changed their tunes, and approved the most recent designs. Because of that, it has been pretty much the "Sierra Club against the World" in the latest lawsuit, which claims the most recent draft design is no real improvement over previous versions.

After several delays, that lawsuit comes to a head in the coming weeks in a Federal Courtroom in Minneapolis, and there seems to be little doubt by most of the players that some sort of bridge will come out of Chief Judge Michael Davis' summary judgement.

"The biggest issue now will be money," stated Sen. Sheila Harsdorf (R- River Falls) at a recent Wisconsin Towns Association meeting. "We're staring at a lot of red ink in the (Wisconsin) state budget, and Minnesota isn't much better off."

A number of local elected officials were disappointed the Bridge Project did not qualify for economic stimulus cash, since it is still at least three years away from having ground broken - even if the latest Sierra Club lawsuit collapses.

But much of the design and prep work has already been completed or is ready to roll, since the various stages of Environmental Impact Studies have made their way sluggishly while the lawsuit spooled up and moved eventually into a courtroom.

The need for a new bridge may have waned somewhat in the past year with the "cooled" Western Wisconsin housing build-up, but the region will no doubt continue to be a growing metropolitan player, as the tired and aging Lift Bridge sputters like a 50s Buick - classic in design, but woefully behind the times in modern terms.

History played a role in the Stakeholders Group, with several historians and preservation players pushing for and winning approval for a sort of "bike and hike retirement" for the old bridge.

The near-final plan would save the rare, classic lifter, and turn it into a silent sports icon if the new bridge is built, and part of a grandiose bike and hike trail that runs the old alignment from downtown Stillwater across to Houlton and downstream to the new bridge and into Oak Park Heights.

That brought quite a few historians on board, and also some of the very people who fought so hard to kill the project previously.

While the monetary costs continue to spiral up - more than doubling since the original Sierra Club/NPS lawsuit was filed - the cost in environmental damage is also noteworthy: Hundreds of thousands of idling, creeping car and trucks every year.

The volume of vehicles continuing to make their way through St. Croix County and into downtown Stillwater and back again each day continues to grow, sometimes pausing for half-an-hour at a time to wait for river traffic or obsolete engineering repairs or upgrades. Those repairs can cause legendary congestion or detours, since there are only a few nearby crossing alternatives: Hudson, Osceola and St. Croix Falls.

And while the Twin Cities suburban ring inches west to Big Lake, St. Cloud and the like, the Metropolitan Council has only recently begun to take the western Wisconsin region into their future plans. meaning commuter trains and rail alternatives are decades away from fruition.

But the Western Wisconsin Commuter Secret - previously only relayed by realtors and commuters with a few to many 'Leinies' under their belts means the 'Sconnie growth should continue.

That secret? The sun is always to our backs.

Don't tell 'em, I told you.

The Whole Ladybug Deal

In Latin they are officially referred to as Harmonia axyridis, but locally go by several nicknames: Asian Lady beetles, Halloween beetles, Harlequins, Stainbugs, Ladybirds, Eurasian Beetles, and as one buddy put it: "The lining of my vacuum cleaner."
We've all got them. Even the cleanest home or office fights off their territorial invasion.
They harbored over-winter in our siding, light fixtures, attics, ceilings, sheds, campers, even in our playground equipment. I even found a moving brood of the little orange beneath a pile of last years Maple leaves!
And with the warming temps, they have emerged in some places like a silent invasion of breathing orange carpeting.
While there are over 4,000 varieties of beetle, world-wide, only several hundred are native to this region.
Now they've become more than just a pest or a nuisance, they're pretty gross.

Local beginnings

I first got a whiff of their extent at a Polk County (Wisconsin) committee meeting nine years ago, when Supervisor Dick Coen of rural Luck noted that he and his wife had seen so many that fall, they had "started naming them," as they crossed their living room floor.
"I told my wife, 'hey look, there goes old six-spot!'" he chortled to the property committee.
The laughs slowly turned to the grim realization that everyone on the committee had a similar issue.
We were slowly being invaded by the tiny, dome-shaped insects that gardeners used to love, Germans fashioned a car after and that kids would delicately carry into the house to name and care for in years past.
The cuteness seems to have worn off years ago.
Now they have become an almost accepted part of Midwestern living, and are so numerous, "surveys" of their extent have become unnecessary.

When did they roll into town?

For almost a decade now, the Ladybugs have swelled into a true example of what "invasive species" really means.
The rumors about the causes and the notes of a possible Ladybug invasion started shortly after the first few million were spotted here in the Valley, going back to the fall of 2000, and even earlier to the south and east.
Going backward, "invasions" were noted in Kentucky in early 1992, central Pennsylvania a year later, and Champaign, Illinois in the late summer of 1994. They've slowly marched north during the warm weather, and have adapted remarkably to the climate along the way.

The Hemlock efforts

But where did they all come from? Was it a semi-successful terrorist plot run amok? Maybe a Biblical Plague that never really gained traction? Maybe a kid really did find a Genie in a bottle, and happened to wish for "Lots of pretty little Ladybugs!"
No, no and Definitely NO.
While they have been identified for over a century as a one of the original biocontrol agents for aphids and other pests, there were planned releases noted in the US as early as 1916, but they didn't catch on.
According to several entomologists, it was the US Department of Agriculture that attempted massive releases of the spherical pests several times in the late 70s and early 80s, hoping the multicolored Asian lady beetle would help to control pests in agricultural centers along the East Coast. The target was primarily the dreaded Hemlock Woolly Adelgid, a pest that has single-handedly threatened most flavors of Hemlock tree. In parts of the Northeast, the future for Hemlocks is grim at best, and the USDA apparently saw the writing on the wall years ago, and tried - unsuccessfully, it seems - to introduce the Ladybug as a last ditch way to save the trees.
The New Orleans theory
Entomologists have tried to trace them genetically, and seem to think the US infestation essentially ALL came from one initial batch, but pinpointing where that colony entered may be twenty years too late.
The beetles were noted in Louisiana in late 1988, although most science-types think that batch may have been an accidental release, possibly from a Japanese cargo vessel or cruise liner in New Orleans. They note that the critters were never released in those areas they were first spotted that year, so the fingers point away from the earlier USDA southeast releases, and may lean toward a new source.
Others have noted the use of the Ladybug as a way to help control aphids on Pecan and Apple crops in the Deep South, from private producers, and that the invasions may have caught on and spread fast, since the warmer weather allowed them to produce many times their usual four to five generations per year.
Where are they?
Whatever the cause, and wherever they entered the US, they are here and they are almost everywhere. The bugs have now been confirmed from far eastern Canada down to Florida, and all along the Atlantic seaboard and mid-Atlantic states. Of course, they have been here and throughout the Midwest and are now even into the Pacific Northwest, where they have become so prominent in Oregon and Washington, shipments of everything from apples to Christmas trees must be inspected, so they don't spread any further. California vintners have made extra efforts to eliminate the bugs, since even a few on the grapes can taint entire batches of wine.
What can we do about them?

But the real issue has become how to control, or at least limit them, since they have no natural enemy - except maybe the Shop Vac.
The problem is that they sort of "communicate." They don't really speak their own language, per se, but communicate via smell - a pheromone, actually. It's called an "Aggregate Pheromone," and when one of the little beasts discovers a nice, safe, warm place to hide out when the weather gets cooler, it realizes that smell, and all the ones around pay attention and flock to that spot.
Those flocks can number from a dozen to tens of thousands, and there have been reports of massive colonies found behind siding or in vents.
They tend to favor the south and west side of buildings, especially areas warmed by afternoon sun. They are also drawn by sharp color contrasts, especially light colors of siding.
The critters are tiny, and they probably do not want to be trapped in your home.
The best trick to eliminating them is to keep them outdoors. Weatherstripping, caulking, sealing holes and obvious entry points will help dramatically.

But they have this spray...

Chemicals and pesticides can and do work, to some extent, but should only be applied outdoors. Many professional think you should only use pesticides as a last resort, and even then, only in the early fall or late summer, to keep them from over wintering.
Would you want thousands of dead ladybugs in your attic or in your walls? It really is best to keep them outside, and use pesticides only as a deterrent. Without mentioning names, there are a number of proven pesticides that work pretty well on the beasts, but many are quite toxic to plants, pets and other critters.

And the good news?

Regardless of our efforts or their numbers, they are probably here to stay at some level.
Yes, they really do a good job of controlling crop-eating aphids, and if you want to control them humanely, it's wise to apply them to a garden.
Efforts and studies are underway to control them biologically, even at a genetic level. One notable area of research involves genetic manipulation to make the bugs nearly flightless, so future generations would be less mobile and likely to spread. Some of these strains are already being used in some controlled environments.
Other tests have proven worthy, although slightly gross: They essentially turn the critters into cannibals during one of their earlier stages, decreasing the number of males so dramatically, they don't even need to wear cologne or buy fast cars to attract females.
Hate them or not, Ladybugs are considered sort of the coolest invasive species. In fact, the Mall of America reportedly releases them ON PURPOSE to keep their over 400 indoor trees pest-free.
Other regions of Europe and Asia have dealt with the critters for decades, and still have a positive view. Some western Europeans even relate to the bugs in Biblical terms, with several nicknames associating them with the Virgin Mary. And several cultures still consider them good luck and positive fortune.
One long-held myth was that killing one was bad luck.
If that is true, then forget broken mirrors and seven years; my Shop Vac has doomed my great grandchildren.



###

observational photo moment #1

This is where I post a photo of some scene in my life, and then comment on it, hoping to surmise some sort of deep, philosophical idea from that scene.
For instance, this is the skylight over my new step-grandson's hospital room, moments after he was born. Sunny skies, light clouds, and an entrancing color of blue.
if I were the mystic type, I would say that bodes well for him.
But then, I'm sure lots of people with quality lives were also born during cloudy days, or rain storms, even during violent weather.
However, Aiden was NOT born during an eclipse, or during a time of clock or calendar transitions - such as Y2K or New Years - and as far as I can tell, he was not born during any unusual signs or events, like an earthquake, tsunami or comet impact.
The stock market was tanking, and Citi bank's stocks were worth about as much as the paper clothes he wore during clean up.
I looked for eagles and hawks, didn't see any.
Cool skylight, though.
Even cooler kid. He's pretty cute, and already has more hair than I've ever had, except during my senior portrait.

The mystery of Lac qui Parle Church

One of my lifelong, best friends, JW - who affectionately brags of "having known me since I was a fetus" - recently moved some of his life to the semi-abandoned "ghost town" of Lac qui Parle, Minnesota.




















Just a few dozen miles from the South Dakota border, the semi-abandoned village may have been one of the possible original choices for the pre-state, territorial Minnesota capitolship, and prominently displays a sign bragging of its' Post Office roots.



Very little history can be found on-line, and the winter hours of the local historical society make it unrealistic to dig into archives when it isn't warm.
But the town seems poised on the verge of fading into the prairie, and that troubles me.
Specifically, there is an old church, pictured here and in my blog's title, that seems close to being a loss forever.

Many people have no trouble with that, and find old, decaying structures or objects "eyesores," and worthy of burial.

I'm just the opposite, and have found a stunning beauty in that decay, but mainly for the history behind it.
I have elicited the help of some of my Flickr photoshop wizards to try and decipher the NAME of the church, which is all but illegible. I could only make out "church" and "synod," and a few Flickr-ites found "Ev Luth" and "John" in the battered wood with extensive digitizing, maybe even a "St." before the John. 

The Minnesota State Historical Society has one photo of the church, from 1971, although they list as the Lac qui Parle 'Union Church."

Hmmm- the plot thickens.

I took several dozen photos in and out of the church, but one of the more stunning features is a nearly century old wood stove (shown here) that I was able to trace back to at least 1912!
Next on the order was genealogical society records, which seem to indicate little about the church, but may reference a cemetery near the site - which I couldn't see through the four-foot-tall snowdrifts. However, that is a game changer, and if a cemetery is "lost," it MUST be noted or reclaimed for protection, by many state statutes.
If that "lost" cemetery is for real, it may indicate the church had an actual congregation until no later than 1922, before pulling up stakes when the village fell apart.
Regardless, the biggest threat to this once amazing structure is obvious: The former landscaping trees that lined its flanks!
Imagine, one hundred years ago, a group of dedicated people did their best to beautify the plain-sided church, and "pretty it up" with some bushes, or shrubs and small trees from their clippings. Those trees/shrubs/bushes are now over thirty feet tall, and growing through the walls and windows, threatening the old church more than the elements, development, critters or even other denominations!

JW and a few of us who moved helped move him have discussed a "save the church" weekend, where we bring our chainsaws, trailers and formidable muscles in to cut those offending trees back and give the church - and possible cemetery - a new chance.
It would be a cool retreat, or shop, or showroom, or ski/snowmobile/ATV stop, or yes, Brother JW, again as a church.

As Lac qui Parle's newest resident put it, he's hoping the church returns the favor.

Let the Blizzard be your biz plan!

"Look for my School of Dance closings on all the big networks"

We got whupped with a big ol winter storm today, and with it comes the usual "school closings" (brought to you by JC Penney) on TV. 

Schools, government offices, night school classes, athletic events, maybe even some church functions are all a part of the mix. 

But I think there are a few sneaky little business owners who capitalize on "school closings," and use it as an opportunity to advertise their daycare, pre-school and lame little dance classes.
I counted three "schools of dance" with closures, and several day cares. Huh? It's 7pm, are you really running an all-night child care?
And do dance class postponements really qualify as essential viewing for several million TV junkies? I'm guessing maybe twenty people TOTAL are affected in any way. And that might be a stretch. I'm betting closer to ten people.
Brilliant scam! It's a way to START a dance school!
Wait til there's a huge snow storm, then "create" a closure at your private dance academy!
"Greg's School of Jitterbug Rhythm - closed, but accepting apps!"
I'm thinking of pushing the envelope, and creating my own Academy, just to close it!
"Marsten Adult Film Creation Academy - CLOSED, but snuggling, babay!"
I think the sky's the limit.

"Marsten-Freeman University, Wisconsin - Evening Classes Canceled"

"Schierman School of Pharmacy, Lac qui Parle - no after school activities"

"Boolie-Boolie International Money Laundering classes - postponed"

"Bliss School of Anger Management - freakin' closed! Deal with it!"

Ever wanted to be a Dean? or a professor, without all the learning, tuition, student loans and stuff? Just wait for a killer blizzard!

By the way, I think the closure thing shows that some daycare names are getting out of hand: "Pumpkin Patch Learning Academy?" No kid of mine is going there, without being neutered first.

"Little Angels Day Care?" "Darling Lambs Child Center?" Lame-opotamus!
Might as well just put the kid in counseling now, and save the hassle later! We're breeding some sort of fembot child care academies, and people pay thousands of dollars to have their kids turned into wimpy bean bag throwing spazzes, who are afraid of a little snow!

The more I think about it, the more I realize that in the future, MY new academy/school/university is NEVER CLOSING for weather! Hell no! We've got four-wheel-drive trikes, and off-road big wheels, and boots so warm you can streak in Alberta.

The only reason MY SCHOOL is closing? Summer.

Well, and for the NCAA Sweet Sixteen. 

Duh. 

Dishing it out

Casserole or hot dish? As long as it tastes good, we judges don't care

judge |jəj|
noun
a public official appointed to decide cases in a court of law.
• a person who decides the results of a competition.
• an official at a sports contest who watches for infractions of the rules.
• a person able or qualified to give an opinion on something : he was a good judge of tasty recipes, talent and band names.

Yes, I modified the definition a bit, but the role is important.




It is one of the lesser-known debates on naming: "Casserole" or "Hot Dish."
The Frederic, Wisconsin Historical Society has usurped that great debate altogether and instead has an annual contest to decide who has the best recipe for the loosely-named Sunday staple in many local households.
I was asked to be a judge in this critical "Hot Dish Competition" for the second straight time. It is one of the most coveted judging calls I've been honored to have.
Hey, I'm not going to turn down free food.
In my quasi-professional career in the media, I've been asked to host, emcee and judge numerous contests: From a bowling alley grand opening to the county fair talent contest and several in between. People think I apparently am a "good judge of talent."
Little do they know how deep it goes.
Hormel made our family one of their "testers" back in the late 70s, and while the dishes seemed to all be various varieties of TV dinner, I did get an early look at food judging.
But I'm not one to insult any food, so they all seemed pretty good to me.
"Hmm, this one would go good with The Six Million Dollar Man and that one would be good with Charlie's Angels!"
Of course, what doesn't go good with bionic action shows and cute female detectives?
The accompanying Hormel letter with each food test made you realize the importance of your judging task - how it will influence the diets and meals of America and the World.
I took it very seriously.
But my career of influencing America was off an running even before that.
As a child, I (mistakenly) told my little brother that I "made up" the phrase "shut up."
I guess I heard it somewhere else, but it made my brother a minor celebrity at Sister Elizabeth Kenny Elementary.
The whole episode also made for a good "meet my Brother" story at college parties later in life.
"Dude, you've got to meet Nate's big brother, he's the guy who INVENTED 'SHUT-UP!'"
The chortles of laughter and hand shaking usually overcomes the ridiculousness of the matter. But back in the late 70s, for several days after the claim, his elementary-age friends had the utmost respect for me.
"I use your word all the time!" they would say at his ball games and birthday parties.
Regardless of whether I really invented the phrase, I consider myself a generally good judge of a product, phrase, band or talent.
I predicted long ago the growth of the flavored coffee creamer market; I saw Star Wars on opening night, and convinced nearly half my Susan B. Anthony Junior High homeroom class to attend in the coming days. That one sealed my fate.
I also count at least two band name to my credit, as well; "The Genuine Imitations" and "Ghost Runner," out of Minneapolis. The first name comes courtesy my late Grandfather, Oscar, who referred to their silverware as "genuine imitation silver."
The other band name, Ghost Runner, comes from our whiffle ball days, when two people could play each other on a backyard, urban "field."
(Once referred to, affectionately, as "Freeman Field at Marsten Park." Man, I WAS ahead of our time.)
"Ghost Runner on third, two outs. You lead, 8 to 5."
I was hoping to make another discovery beneath the Frederic Depot picnic shelter, tasting strange hot dish/casseroles on a hot Saturday afternoon.
The competition included a celebrity of sorts in '08 State Senate candidate Alison Page of River Falls. The contest is also a chance to schmooze with the Frederic royalty, local elected folk and business leaders and of course, the actual hot dish creators.
The great "Hot Dish vs. Casserole" debate seemed moot, but there was a variety of atypical-styled dishes, including one with - hang on to your apron - CURRY and coconut.
I don't think Campbell's makes a flavor of soup for that.
Another entry was nothing but carrots, simmering in a sweet-and-sour style broth that amazingly won raves from the participants.
Even with the curry, coconuts and carrots, the variety was not as wild as last year, when an exotic seafood-based noodley-thing was the winner.
The judging criteria is up in the air, but the three of us - myself, Frederic native Kenny Java and former Burnett County Sentinel editor Byron Higgin (Who was my boss for about four days a few summers back, during a "business courtship.")
We all did our best to be "Fox News-like" in our judging: Fair, balanced and most of all, full.
I personally planned to eat nothing but rice cakes, sweet corn and water for three days prior, so I could be famished enough to eat something I might not normally like.
Didn't quite work out that way.
In the end, the taste buds had a workout, and a less-than-exotic "calico bean" style hot dish won top prize. It was hard work but I think our judging was of professional caliber.
I mean, I hope we did a good job. My waistline thought so.
And there wasn't a tater tot anywhere to be seen...or tasted.

###

The Vintage Tiller Chronicles

How a 40-year-old, hard-to-start garden tiller predicted the recent Economic Collapse


Reverse hasn't worked since the Carter Administration, and even my top notch small-motor guy couldn't find an air filter that fits.
But man that 5-horse tiller rips up some turf.
Rusty, permanently dirty and louder than a fat-chested Harley, I prefer to paint the old Gamble-Skogmo garden tiller as more of a "construction tool" than a "gardening tool." Think hard hats, stump pulling and the clang of metal on metal - all while drinking coffee from a dented thermos.
The lamest phrase in redneck pop culture actually applies to this beast: "Git 'er done."
Somehow with it's blatty, dirt bike muffler and faded tractor-red paint, calling it a "gardening tool" seems to lessen it.
The beast was originally from northern Minnesota at my late Grandparent's Red River Valley farm. I distinctly recall my Grandpa Oscar fighting with the monster tiller on occasion, ripping our former whiffle ball field into a future home for tomatoes, peas and beans.
When the farm was sold a decade ago, it was one of the first things I grabbed.
Sure, it can be a project to get it started that first time each spring; No amount of fresh gas, oil or filtering will keep your right shoulder in its socket after spending all morning trying to pull it to life. The old Briggs and Stratton needs a little trip behind the quanset, with a shot or three of high-test starting fluid.
After a blast of near-pure ether, the old tiller is ready for the rest of spring, usually starting on the first pull.
Sure, it's a dinosaur, but it works and it works well. It just needs a little TLC to get going; not unlike many of us.
The tiller is usable scrap to most people, but it's also a snapshot of the old ways of doing business, and may be a pre-cursor to the recent financial meltdown in the making. I'll call it the "Gamble-Skogmo Gambit."
For folks over forty, Gambles stores were pretty common in this region. Their hardware stores were commonly thought to be the best in many local towns. Gamble-Skogmo was a giant for decades, owning numerous and diverse companies ranging from the Red Owl grocery chain to Snyder Drugs, with dozens in between.
The Gamble-Skogmo empire started nearly 100 years ago in Fergus Falls when Bertin Gamble and Phillip Skogmo pooled their limited cash and bought a (failing) car dealership.
It didn't take long for them to realize that the real money was in auto parts, not the actual sales. They started a variety store and it caught on like pink eye in daycare. They moved their headquarters to Minneapolis, expanded further and not only survived the Market Crash of '29 (they were still privately held), they also survived the Great Depression with aplomb, actually expanding to the point of going public with their empire in 1947.
They eventually became the poster child company for mergers and diversification - including everything from financing to real estate to retail. By the time Jimmy Carter took office - and my tiller lost the ability go into reverse - Gamble-Skogmo had become the 15th largest retailer in the US, with over 25,000 employees.
Then it fell apart fast. Gambles, that is. Not the tiller.
An over-eager Gamble-Skogmo investment arm smelled blood in the water and attempted to takeover the seemingly vulnerable Garfinckel chain of stores (which included the prestigious Brooks Bothers) only to find the family behind the firm less than ready to roll over.
An ensuing court case went in favor of Garfinckel, and the tattered remnant of over-leveraged Gamble-Skogmo was nearly broken and later merged with the equally struggling and over-leveraged Wickes Corporation in 1980.
It was about 1982 when the choke went on the tiller and ether was required for a start, about the time when the chewed and stewed remnants of Gamble-Skogmo were divvied up among a few foreclosure parties.
All that was left were a few Alden's mail order stores and an occasional Red Owl grocery store. One in Green Bay and another in Rochester.
There's probably a place for an old-styled Gamble-Skogmo - A store that specializes in something, anything, that nobody else does. But that's not the philosophy of today.
I remember the old CEO quote that, "General Motors wasn't in the business of making cars - they were in the business of making money."
Maybe GM needs to get back to making cars and trucks, just like Bertin and Phillip in that Fergus Falls garage - finding out they do something really well, and then doing it even better, and applying it to other businesses, within reason. That worked for over half a century. But the later "Gamble-Skogmo Gambit" failed miserably. After rising so fast and steady on what they did best, the company got greedy and shot themselves in the foot.
You can fall pretty fast and far when you stand on someone else's shoulders.
Like many speculation-based companies, they got so bloated, heavy and dividend-greedy, they used beheading to lose weight.
But Bertin and Phillip, that wasn't their way; They found a niche, and filled it.
That's the "American Way," and it's something we can do again.
We could start with a few well-built garden implements.

Matt's Dad to the Sixth

One of these photos is the original. A strange shot I took a recent (rockin' good) outdoor party. Can you tell which one? I'll post the answer in the near future. (Hint: It's the RED ONE!) Thanks to Dave Rosendahl for holding still and feeding the fire all night long.

The salvaged Chicago "Black Friday" Series #1

All photos were once thought lost on a previous computer, from a now-retired Nikon. The computer - a Dell, I should mention - that had a tendency to swallow programs whole, and not in a good way.
The shots are all from downtown Chicago over Thanksgiving 2005, and include several of the really cool people in my life: My wife, daughter, brother and his wife and eventually some others. I highly recommend going to DT Chicago on a Black Friday at least once in your life. It is an exhilarating, exciting and pretty safe time to do it. Big crowds, all enjoying the experience. Amazing people watching, inspiring lights, music, usually snow. Turns Scrooge into Prancer.

Early Bluetooth Ear-phone Concept

This is absolutely real. I took it two years ago while on a junket in Seattle. The man was working at the Fish Market downtown on the pier, and talking on a cell phone attached to his head with a RUBBER-BAND! Click on the photo and see. He don't need no stinking ear piece.

My guest letter for a high school graduation…

Every Spring, thousands of young men and women will get puffed up and don mortar boards, gowns and tans as they graduate from high school.
This letter/column was meant to be a realistic addendum to the numerous speeches and many years of public education they have endured.
It is also a sample speech I can give for any large event, christening, Grand Opening, shuttle launch, inauguration, execution or pre-school graduation ceremony.
I title it: "Do as I say, not as I did."

Graduates:

•You can no longer sign your name with a heart or a smiley face. You need to stick to a signature from here on. Make sure it reflects your intelligence level and penmanship.
•Be good to your ears; wear earplugs when necessary.
•While you are sure to celebrate your incredible educational accomplishments, don’t celebrate in a way that will bring an unwanted child into the world.
•If you haven’t started smoking yet, congratulations! Now don’t start.
•Keep track of all your local friends, it is very hard to track them down later. Wherever you move to, bring a local phone book. Much cheaper than 411.
•Stay the same weight; it saves a ton of clothing money.
•Time to think about unpleasant subjects like insurance, paying the dentist, Selective Service, phone bills and waking up before noon.
•Be nice to little kids, animals and older folks. Period. You were a goofy little chump once, also. And you will probably be old one day, as well.
•This is your last chance to travel the world on your parent’s dime. Go everywhere, see everything, and stay out of foreign jails or bathhouses.

•Drive reasonably, wear your seat belts and use your turn signals.
•Now is your last chance to either grow your hair really long, really goofy, or color it purple, green or blue.
•Drinking is likely, just not legal. We all know many of you will be drunk several times this summer. Just don’t break stuff, people or critters. Throw a sleeping bag in the back of your car and a large bottle of aspirin in the glove box. A toothbrush is a good idea, also.
•Remember that you will look extra dorky with long neon hair, nose rings and a name tag in your mugshot.
•Keep track of your own taxes. It’s not your parents’ job anymore.
•Personally thank your favorite teachers for putting up with you and not retiring the year before you came into their class.
•Visit your relatives, especially those in nursing homes.
•Make dinner for your parents on occasion. Make the bed you borrow and remember your family’s birthdays.
•Use sunscreen liberally.
•Vote with your head and heart now; You’ll vote with your wallet later. Just vote.
•Keep track of all your pictures, they are your own little museum of memories. Mark them on the back, and load them into CDs or hard drives, albums or boxes.
•Buy three things: A good dictionary, a piece of art you enjoy and a bedspread that goes with everything. You now have the beginnings of any home you will ever live in.
•Attend your parent’s church on occasion. The parishioners will be flabbergasted and genuinely intrigued - even with the neon hair and nose rings.
•Volunteer for something on occasion: Mentoring, Scouts, church chaperoning, coaching, Adopt-a-Highway clean up, etc. Don't wait for community service requirements from a judge.
•Be very careful at weddings, they can be dangerous.
•Learn to drive a stick shift.
•Take care of your teeth, back and knees. Wear good shoes, also.
•Don’t cuss in public, ever.
•Now is your last real chance to learn a new language. Make it a cool one, like Russian or Farsi. That way no one can correct you.
•Don’t get a tattoo you can’t cover with a dress, sport coat or long sleeved shirt.
•Worth saying twice: Wear your seat belt. No exceptions. It’s amazing what you can survive with a belt on.
•Men, learn to tie a tie, vacuum the carpet and unload a dishwasher.
•Ladies, learn how to unplug the toilet, check the oil on your car and clear a mouse trap.
•Be respectful to people you don’t know. Make them earn your disrespect.
•Attend the funeral of every person you know. It gives you an appreciation for reality, friendship and the passing of time. The ceremonies are amazingly uplifting.
•On that note, have one appropriate suit of clothes for such a “serious” event.
•Always carry a few extra “throw away” bucks, and don’t be afraid to buy a kid a pack of gum. They’ll think you’re a god.
•Hug your relatives, smile often when listening, say “thank you” and always leave an appropriate tip.

•Make the future more than it would be without you in it. We trust you, just as our parents trusted us. Make us proud, baby. Make us proud of that trust.


(A portion of this first appeared in May 2003, in an opinion column in The Osceola (WI) Sun. All photo credits mine,)

Origin of the Species

Oldest friend JW - who routinely introduces me as someone he has known "Since I was a fetus" - passed along one of the rare, but oh-so-cool Fels-Naptha Soap ads and background on the origins of "Tattletale Gray."
Thanks, Jay-Dub, for the history, kitsch and Americana!




The term “tattle tale” wasn’t exactly a very nice name to associate with people who intentionally got a friend, acquaintance, family member, and even adversary in trouble. It also wasn’t a very nice name for the laundry, either.

Husbands immediately knew their wives were washing the laundry with inferior soap. How did they know? Their (supposedly) white shirts were an awful shade of “Tattle Tale Gray.” When this happened, husbands weren’t bashful in letting their wives know about the error of their ways--- in a less than happy manner. Although Tattle Tale Gray wasn’t the major reason for divorces back then, it sure did make life miserable.

This dingy looking color was awful, but it could easily be dealt with. Actually, there were 2 possible solutions for the wife. First (and it’s an excellent thought), let hubby wash his own shirts. Guaranteed, it prevented him from complaining further on this subject, but it didn’t exactly solve the overall problem of Tattle Tale Gray. The practical solution was to wash the laundry with Fels-Naptha. It didn’t matter if it was the original Fels-Naptha Soap Bar or Fels-Naptha Soap Chips--- as long as it said Fels-Naptha on the wrapper or box. When Fels-Naptha was used, the white clothes were actually white. That meant white shirts and happy husbands. With Tattle Tale Gray an unpleasant, but distant memory, husbands and wives were getting along very well, thanks to Fels-Naptha.




(Photo above is JW, posing with his patented "People Mover" golf cart trailers. He can build you a way-cool ride for less than it takes to buy an Illinois Zoning Commissioner seat from Rod Blagojevich. Plus, you can customize the trailer with hot rod wheels, hot colors and graphics and even a stereo or cooler! Full feature to come, along with a shameless promotional link!)

Vintage Camper Showcase #12 (AKA "The Minnesota Duck.")

It's one of my favorite off-color jokes. A yarn so simple and silly, even a fourth grader - or a radio host - can understand and revel in it.
It's the story of The Minnesota Duck: Two guys - usually of Scandinavian descent - are finishing a day of duck hunting in the woods of North Dakota. Diligent in making sure they didn't exceed the No Dak limits, they are about to head back to the Lodge for a few stories, beers and probably white-colored food. That's when a North Dakota DNR agent stops them. He asks if they were shooting only North Dakota ducks.
"Well, how would we know?" The one hunter rails back.
That's when the DNR fella reaches into his mouth, licks his finger and yes, sticks it into the rear end of the Mallard. He then pulls it out, slides it under his nose and smells. Eyes closed, he nods and says, "No, that's a North Dakota duck."
He then repeats the same procedure on each dead fowl. Finally, he reels back and declares that one of the ducks is, indeed, a "Minnesota Duck."
(That means it would be out of season, because North Dakota and Minnesota can't agree on anything, except that manure "smells like money.")
"You boys will need to come with me." He declares.
Shocked, the two hunters can't believe it.
"First, you need to tell me your names and where your from," he said.
The first hunter dutifully answers, "Jens Jenson, from Fergus Falls."
The other hunter - yeah, you see it coming - is less than cooperative: He drops his pants, turns around and declares:
"I'm Larry Hanson. And you're so smart, you tell ME where I'm from!"

That one never gets old.
God Bless my old friend Wes Schierman, who first told me that joke when I was about 12-years old.



(Photos are from the C.Dickenson Collection, from the RV/MH Museum in Indiana. No water fowl were injured in the making of this joke or blog post.)

Birthday Boy

Happy Birthday, Orv!

Frank Lloyd Wright Thanksgiving Photo Study

All photos taken Thanksgiving Day, 2006 at the Frank Lloyd Wright-designed and built Seth Peterson Cottage, on Mirror Lake near the Wisconsin Dells. Owned by the State DNR, and up for rent by the weekend! 

(Thanks to Brother Brian and Cheryl Freeman, and the 'rents for footing the bill at this Amazing Piece of architectural history.) And yes, I'm including a rare, former smoker self-portrait (the last one, on the porch.)
Happy Thanksgiving to you and yours. Hope the last photo doesn't wreck your appetite!

The Big Wheel Generation

I think I was born in the last few days of the "Baby Boom." So technically, I am a "boomer."
But in reality, I am a part of much more crystalline definition, a smaller, more interesting and exciting band of group dynamic: "The Big Wheel Generation."
We can blame it all on the Big Wheel.
We were the first "gen" to capitalize on that new found (herein officially named only on TTG) "Turnpike Directive," courtesy of Pres/General D.D. Eisenhower.
Think of all the millions of tons of concrete and asphalt America poured across our acreage. It wasn't all just roads, you know. Some it was sidewalks; Micro roads, made for cool Schwinn Sting Rays, roller skates, lemonade stands, chalk markings for lane restrictions and yes, the grandfather of all great late model stunt drivers: The Big Wheel.
All those new sidewalks of the 50s, 60s and 70s were just waiting for our extreme, pre-"X-game" brand of plastic-wheeled stunt expression: "The Big Wheel 360."
The machine was born in 1969 in America by the Louis Marx and Company, and became such a hasty hit in the early 70s that every boy HAD to have one. Period. But the low-slung, big front wheel trike was one of the most ruthlessly stolen designs of its time, so much so the Marx company pretty well gave up and sold the brand name and design to their chief competitor, Empire Plastics.
The Big Wheel was hailed as a safer pastime than biking, which of course will eventually kill you.
It was hard to get hurt on a Big Wheel, unless you crashed several of them together - which we did. Or ran into street signs. Which we also did. Or ran them into anything that was stationery, solid and sold newspapers. Again, we did it.
But the freedom. Big Wheels allowed you access to parts of your neighborhood you had to - gasp - WALK TO.
Or bike and die.
They had a crudely adjustable seat, so you could both grow and keep your toy - which, come to think of it, was probably their downfall: You didn't ever really outgrow them.
But we wore all of ours out in my neighborhood.
The Big Wheel had it all: Cool sounds, leopard-like agility and a chopper-esque profile that still stands as one of the coolest toy designs ever. It also had a fake pod of gauges on the yoke, meant to make us believe we were really cooking with gas.
Yes, the staccato clatter of the machine on concrete was immediately recognized. (It was probably the lack of bearings and the friction of the less-than-round plastic wheels across the sidewalk expansion strips that made it sound so ominous.)
Sure, you could motor pretty fast, and it was also fun to do a quick little burn out as you shot away to a new, unknown and critical adventure.
But the best part was the brake.
With a simple tug on the right side lever, the whole machine would go careening sideways, spinning madly like Mannix's Cougar on gravel, the Kansas farm house in an Oz tornado or Dotty Hamill's oh-so-waifish haircut.
It was pure, G-force joy, probably not unlike the early astronauts or test drivers experienced.
The Big Wheel Spin was so addictive, every kid's machine in my neighborhood had "flat spots' on the back wheels.
So what? It just made the ride a little bumpier.
The freedom, the spins and the low rider effect turned us into a nation of speed freaks and G-force junkies.
Not all "Extreme Sports" were born from surfing or skateboarding - no, baby, for a lot of us, it was the Big Wheel.
Sadly, the machines went out of favor in the late 90s, and are hard to find these days. There was even a few years where NOBODY MADE THEM!
Alas, the Big Wheel was re-born in 2003, and now has races, clubs, web sites and new fans all over.
There is nothing like that child-like rush of first riding a bike on your own, or eating your favorite food for the first time, or sleeping over and not being "ascared." But few memories can match that first 180-donut in a Big Wheel.
Hmm, now if they only had sidewalks in my neighborhood...

(Image credit to artist Jennifer Mazur)

Reasons to Like Winter #1 and #2

Buddy the Bishon-Poodle shows how to negotiate a corner in the snow. Critters are great in that first cool storm. They're easily entertained, err, just like me.Skating, no matter how poorly, is rewarding and exhausting, even for kids with young hearts and fresh lungs.