Lessons about happiness from an expert

Everyone wants to be happy. But it seems fewer people actually are. So, I’m going to try to change that by calling on a happiness expert – Happy Gilmore.

Happy Gilmore is the name of a 1996 movie comedy starring Adam Sandler, but its also the name of the lead character, a misguided hockey player trying to save his Grandma’s house from the IRS by becoming a pro golfer. Along the way he encounters a golf coach who’s missing a hand because an alligator bit it off. He also competes against a much better golfer by the name of Shooter MacGavin, and he gets into a slugfest with the old TV game show host Bob Barker.

So what can we learn from Happy that will make us happier in our own lives? I think there are three things we can learn.

The first, and probably the most important, is that we need to control our emotions. There’s a scene in the movie where Happy is standing at a bar and is being taunted by his arch nemesis Shooter MacGavin. Happy breaks a beer bottle and threatens Shooter while gripping the neck of the broken bottle.

Suddenly, Happy’s almost angelic girlfriend, Virginia, shows up and asks Happy what he is doing holding a broken bottle in his hand while his temper is flaring. Happy puts on a happy face and says, “I am just looking for the other half of it. Here’s a piece and here’s another piece.”

Sometimes we are going to be taunted by people and events that are going to be difficult to deal with. It’s easy to lose our temper. But the wiser choice is to learn to hold our tongue. It’s been said that grace is keeping your head when everyone else is losing theirs.

Let’s be graceful. And let’s keep our tempers in check. A day later or even an hour after we’re mad, we often look back at it and laugh or admit that it wasn’t worth getting mad about.

Second, we need to be ourselves and quit trying to be what others want us to be. For Happy, he was an unconventional golfer. In fact, he admitted that he was really a hockey player. Actually, he was a bad hockey player but a pretty good, unconventional golfer.

He could drive the ball farther than anyone on the pro circuit because he hit the golf ball the same way he would hit a hockey puck. He also didn’t use a regular putter. He used one the size of a hockey stick. Who knows…maybe it fit his hands better or made him more comfortable on the greens. The results are what counts and at the end of the movie, it’s a putt with the big putter that ricochets around a bunch of twisted pipes and bounces off a Volkswagen to win the tournament and save Grandma’s house.

I know all about this one. I stand out from the crowd because I write right-handed and do everything else left-handed. It would be no easier for me to learn to write left-handed than it would to learn to throw a baseball right-handed. We are what we are. Let’s accept that.

We need to keep our temper in check, we need to genuinely like ourselves the way God made us and we need to keep the right sense of perspective.

There’s a scene where Happy and his caddy – formerly a bum – are looking out at the fairway from a tee box.

Happy says, “Looks like a slight hill.” His caddy adds, “Yeah, and there’s a slant to the left.” Happy replies “Naw, it just looks that way because you only have one shoe on.”

It’s hard not to laugh at that. But how many of us are like the caddy. We’ve seen things from only one perspective so long that it looks right to us.

That is, until someone comes a long and turns our world on end because they look at things a little differently.

I have an older brother who use to make a lot of money as a welder in the oil fields in central Montana. As a welder, he worked around some of the toughest men in a tough industry. That’s why they call them roughnecks.

Today, my brother watches high school kids in a study hall in western Montana – many of whom are sent there because they are disruptive in class. In the world of high school, they are the worst of the worst. To my brother, they are about as troublesome as a lone cloud on a sunny day.

While teachers and administrators in the school think these kids are unruly or incorrigible, to my brother, they are no different from him when he was their age. And because he likes them, guess what? They like him to.

That’s why the principal of the high school asked my brother to leave his position at a middle school to take a similar job at a high school. I’m sure the teachers look at my brother and wonder if he isn’t looking at the world with one shoe off, but for Randy, he’s looking at the kids the way he wished high school teachers had looked at him. 

Who knows, these kids might end up getting married, buying a home, starting a business and raising a family….just like Randy did. And, really isn’t that what life’s about? High school is not an end, it’s a beginning.

So let’s learn from Happy. We’ll be happier if we control our emotions, accept ourselves as we are, and learn to accept other points of view as being as valid as our own. 

A Christmas we would never forget

Before I get to Christmas 2007, let me tell you about what happened in May that year. Dad had fallen down and a heart specialist recommended that he get a pacemaker. So we made arrangements with a surgeon at MedCenter One in Bismarck to implant the device.

On the appointed day, we took dad to the hospital for the procedure. They wanted him to come in at 6 a.m....before he ate breakfast.

As he's waiting for the surgeon to arrive, a nurse begins to ask dad several questions about his medical history. She asked him if he ever had a broken bone, ever had hepatitis, did he have high blood pressure, etc. Dad politely told her that he never had any of those things, although he was sitting in front of her with two broken fingers from when he fell. So I chimed in and told her the correct answers. Yes, he was a hepatitis survivor and he did have high blood pressure and a few other ailments.

Finally, she asked dad if he'd been to any foreign countries in the past couple of years or had any blood transfusions. Anyway, dad looked at me, then he turned toward the nurse.

"I want to tell you 'No', but that fella over there keeps piping up and contradicts my answers," he said.

His answer struck my funny bone and I began to laugh. Pretty soon, he was laughing also. So was the nurse.

Dad's memory isn't what it used to be, and some times the results can be very humorous. But it's not all his memory either. Like other people his age, he doesn't see and hear as well as he used to...and his patience has completely worn out.

So now let's jump back to Christmas 2006, his first holiday season in Mandan. Actually, it was Christmas Eve service and all the lights were turned out at the United Methodist Church as we were singing "Silent Night" by candlelight.

Much to the delight of my boys and my utter terror, dad was getting dangerously close to the hymnal with his lighted candle. As it turned out, he didn't start the pages on fire, but he did manage to drop a lot of candle wax into the music. I was wondering if the hymnal would ever be opened again after the book was closed on all that hot wax.

Now skip ahead a few months and we're at a country church where a funeral for one of Belinda's uncles is taking place. As often happens at these little churches, the priests who have served the parish all came back to play a role in the memorial service.

Some of the priests looked like they were older and more feeble than dad who was sitting in the second pew...right behind the deceased's brothers and sister -- also known as Belinda's mom and uncles. As one of the priests fumbled for his place in his old black, dog-eared prayer book, Mr. Patience -- standing next to me -- started drumming his fingers on the back of the pew in front of us.

In a few more seconds, his fuse had completely burned out and he said, in a nice loud, irritated tone, "He can't find it. He can't find it. He can't find what he's looking for."

You know, it's hard to laugh in church, especially at a funeral. But it's even harder to stop laughing.

Now come with me to Christmas Eve 2007. The Methodist church was packed and it seems that everyone had something to do. For my family, we were charged with lighting the Advent candles. As it was the last night before Christmas, there were five candles to light.

After our experience the year before, we didn't think it wise to have dad touch any candles. So we asked him if he would read the Scripture. It was from the second chapter of Luke. You are familiar with it as it's the same Scripture that Linus reads on the Charlie Brown Christmas Special every year.

There was Scott, Belinda, Grandpa and me. We decided to practice this whole lighting the candles, reading the Scripture, saying the prayer affair before the actual service and it's a lucky thing we did.

I had the second chapter of Luke printed out in nice big print for dad to read. And then he came to the part where Joseph is traveling from the town of Nazareth in Galilee to Bethlehem, the town of David with his betrothed, Mary, who was expecting a child. This is where dad decided to read between the lines as he blurted out, "I bet that wasn't even his child."

Now for you heathens who have never read the Nativity story, dad was right. It's isn't Joseph's child. It's the baby Jesus, the son of God. But still...you don't want any ad-libbing during the lighting of the Advent wreath...especially if the extra words sounds like some sort of conspiracy theory hatched by road agents in ancient Judah.

So the question was this: do we trust dad to read the Scripture and hope that he remembers my warning about just sticking to the script, or do we trust him with a lighted candle in front of a packed church?

The answer was to give him the reading. And he did it wonderfully. The worshipers that night were very complimentary about how well dad had handled that passage of Scripture, especially the name of the governor of Syria -- "Quirinius."

Dad got the accolades he deserved....but if the crowd had only been there 30 minutes earlier for practice, it would have been a Christmas no one would have ever forgot.

Based on a true story...sort of

When Picasso was born, his mother would tell him and the other kitties stories from her life - in hopes her stories would protect her children when they were adopted by other people and taken to other homes. One of her stories dealt with mice.

She called them "darters." Little Picasso purred to his mommy, "Why do you call them that?"

"Because, honey, they like to dart in an out of holes in the walls, or from under hiding places and they are very tough to catch, but..." she smiled, "...they are fun to play with. You can bat them around and play with them until they are dead."

Picasso had never seen a mouse and he was nearing his first birthday, but the story his mother told him had stuck with him. He looked every where for a mouse, but alas, none was to be found at the Van Dyke's home. That is until one holiday - Veteran's Day - when Steve was sleeping in.

Picasso was sleeping at the foot of Steve's bed when he saw something that he had never seen before. Sticking out at the bottom of the covers was a round, pinkish mouse.

At first, Picasso wasn't sure it was a mouse so he went over and smelled it. It had an odor. So he licked it.

Suddenly the mouse darted under the covers.

With the quick movement, Picasso was more confident than ever that what he had seen darting under the blanket was a mouse. So he reached his paw under the covers and started batting at it.

This seemed to wake up Steve, who looked down at the foot of the bed to see this golden cat swiping at his big toe.

Thinking nothing of it, Steve went back to sleep...after all, it was a holiday.

As his feet were growing warm under the blankets, he again stuck his left toe out to get a little air.

Suddenly, the kitty sprung to life and pounced on the mouse, biting, licking and pawing at the darter.

Steve woke up from his dream and realized that Picasso was a "gullible" cat because he acted on only a small bit of information that his mother had told him. However, now the adventures of Picasso would be know throughout the world as "Gullible's Travels."

Bloom where you’re planted

All summer long I’ve been looking at these marigolds growing in the middle of my garden. A couple of weeks ago, I put my garden to bed for the winter when I dug up my potatoes, beets and carrots…the last vegetables growing, but I left the marigolds because they are very hearty and will take a couple of frosts before they stop blooming. Also, because I know that if I leave them in my garden, they’ll drop some seeds and grow next year. I’m not exactly sure where they will grow next year but I know that the scent of the marigolds drive off wanted insects and other pests. For instance, we live near the edge of Mandan but rabbits, gophers and squirrels don’t bother our garden. I’m about half convinced it’s because of the marigolds.

But the marigolds are but one flower I have in my yard. I’m also a lover of tulips. They are a sure sign of spring when their green heads start popping through the frozen ground. Come May, the tulips are bright yellow, orange and red…but they need to be cared for.

So on a sunny Saturday afternoon, my son Derek and I got busy and dug up the tulip beds. There are a few things you do.

First, you dig up the four to six inches of dirt that covers them. Second you remove the tulip bulbs. Then you dig a little deeper and add fertilizer. You put a little dirt over the fertilizer and rake the bed flat. Next you separate the bulbs and plant them. Then cover them back up. Then you wait for spring to arrive. 

So let’s review how this can help us as we grow and mature.

First, there’s the dirt. Where ever we are working or living, we need to make sure that the climate and goals of those around us are a match for us.

Let me give you an example. I began my career with newspapers, but after working 20 years in public relations for an energy company and a telephone cooperative, I had a hard time returning to the job of being a newspaper reporter in 2002. It wasn’t that I had forgotten how to write, but there was just so much more that I wanted to do than just be a reporter. It’s a bit like asking a gourmet chef to be in charge of the salad bar at Bonanza. Because the “dirt” wasn’t right, I looked elsewhere for opportunities and landed my current position with a trade association and returned to public relations.

Next you need to separate the bulbs. By this I mean you need to look at your current position and see what else you can do to attain a higher position, if that’s what you seek.  I remember doing exactly that when I worked for a regional utility. I was the editor of the employee magazine but I really wanted to be the manager of the department. So I looked at what other things I could be doing.

Well, there was talking to the press and writing speeches for executives. Also, there were leadership duties such as communications planning. In all, I had drawn one circle in the middle of a piece of paper that said, magazine editor. Then I drew about eight circles,  which contained other things that I could be doing and should be doing if I wanted to advance.

That’s what I mean by separating the bulbs. Tulips start with one bulb but in a couple of years, there can be a cluster of bulbs around that initial one. If you don’t separate them, the one in the middle will begin to die and pretty soon the bulbs will simply turn to dirt. So just as separating bulbs is essential, it’s also necessary to see what else you can do to help you advance.

Remember, your advancement also will help your employer. After all, the person you hope to replace will eventually retire and your company wants someone who can do as good a job or even a better job than person now holding the postion.

Finally, you need to fertilize. And for people, that comes from training. An honest assessment has to be taken. What do I need to be trained on for me to advance. For me it was public speaking and getting over my severe fear of public speaking.

You might not recognize it today, but I assure you that I was petrified to speak in front of an audience or a camera…knowing that hundreds or perhaps thousands would be listening to me.

So I joined Toastmasters…back in 1989. The first meeting I attended was incredibly unnerving. It was the Flickertail Toastmasters Club and they had a speaker cancel on them at the last minute so I was asked to give my “Ice Breaker”. I thought I would die. But I didn’t. And gradually, I started getting better and overcame my nervousness.

I’m lucky that I found Toastmasters because it has made a world of difference to me.

So the next time you see marigolds or tulips or whatever flower you like growing in a bed of dark loam, remember that flower is urging you to bloom where you’re planted. Plant your roots in good dirt and spread your blossoms toward the sun. 

So long Nibby, welcome Picasso

Nibby was definitely Grandpa's cat. He would come when Grandpa wanted him. He would follow him to bed, sleep with Grandpa until he fell asleep and then Nibby would stay up all night looking out the window, jumping on our bed or several other things that only cats understand. Before Grandpa woke up in the morning, Nibby would sneak back onto his bed so that Grandpa would be sure to think that Nibby slept there all night.

And if you dared even to try to move Nibby from Grandpa's bed or a chair or off the counter, Grandpa was always there to defend his poor helpless cat. Many a time, Grandpa's relatives got a tongue-lashing for something we might or might not have done to Nibby.

So when Nibby got sick and was put to sleep this week, I didn't really think I would get choked up with emotion. After all, this was a one-person cat, and I never was that one person. Nibby was a nice looking black-and-white male tom cat, but he wasn't what you would call affectionate. He was independent. Tough. And always made me feel that I was intruding on his turf.

Still, when I brought him into the vet's office last Tuesday afternoon, my eyes filled with tears and I could barely speak to the receptionist. Grandpa, on the other hand, was looking for the Men's room and seemed oblivious to the task at hand.

A couple of days later and I was starting to forget about Nibby and the tears that were shed...that is, until we got a letter from the vet's office. It was a condolence card but it also had a card with inked paw prints and the name "Nibby" calligraphed underneath. I saw the card and thought, "Is this some cruel joke...I'm tearing up again."

Yeah, I fed Nibby and hunted for him when Grandpa would let him outside and he'd run away...but I couldn't say I was ever close to him.

So when Grandpa said on Tuesday that he didn't want another cat, I had mixed emotions. On one hand, I wondered if he would miss his companionship that he had with Nibby. But on the other hand, Nibby never liked anyone but Grandpa so it wasn't hard to say that you really wanted another cat like Nibby.

But as the days passed, it soon became apparent that Grandpa had not forgotten his cat. Even though I had moved the kitty box, kitty food and dishes out to the garage, Grandpa still was relentless in his search for his cat and wondering where Nibby was.

So what was clear to Belinda, Scott and Derek, soon became clear to me. We had to find Grandpa another cat.

On Friday afternoon, Scott and his cousin Janelle drove to the animal shelter to scope out the cats. Scott called me at work and told me they had three choices but Picasso was definitely their first choice. At 3 p.m. on Friday, I met Grandpa, Belinda and Janelle at the shelter and I agreed that Picasso was definitely a good selection. He loved to be held and purred when cuddled.

Plus there was a story that came with Picasso. He had been found in a garbage can and given to the shelter. It seems that his previous owners had abandoned him. They put him in a cardboard box and threw him away.

How heart-wrenching...and yet it felt like what we had gone through. No, we hadn't been thrown away. But we felt a loneliness and emptyness after Nibby died. So it seemed like a match made in heaven. We would provide a good home for Picasso and just maybe Picasso would fill the void left behind by Nibby. Grandpa might yet again have a cat that will follow him to bed, put him to sleep and then jump on our bed to wake us up in the middle of the night.

No, Picasso isn't the classy dude Nibby was. Nibby always looked like he showed up in a black and white tuxedo. But Picasso seems to have a much better attitude than the somewhat peevish and very spoiled Nibby.

Anyway, we got a call at 1:30 p.m. on Saturday that if we wanted to adopt Picasso, we could come to the animal shelter in an hour and pick him up. In the mean time, I went to the garage and fetched the kitty box and washed the kitty dishes and put fresh water and fresh food in them.

Grandpa walked by me and spied what I was doing. He said, "It looks better already."

So in the period of a few days, it seems like our family has fallen into a great abyss only to emerge...hopefully better than before.

The land of Dancing Cabbages

When I look back now, I'm surprised I got to keep my job at Mid-Rivers Telephone Cooperative, especially after my first two weeks on the job. People think I have a hearing problem now, but it turns out I couldn't hear when I was younger either.

It was January 1983 and I was 23-years-old. I had worked at couple of weekly newspapers and had just landed a job as a community relations coordinator for a telephone cooperative headquartered in Circle, Montana. I really didn't know what the job entailed so wasn't surprised when someone from the accounting department asked me to look through a stack of expense reports and pull out any that had to do with Dancing Cabbage.

I didn't give it a lot of thought because I had just gone through the Christmas season and knew that Cabbage Patch dolls were all the rage so Dancing Cabbages shouldn't come as a surprise either....although I had never heard of them before that day.

When the day was over I told the person who had asked for my help that I hadn't come across even one report with Dancing Cabbages. She looked at me with a quizzical appearance and asked me to repeat myself.  So I did. She then laughed and said that I would have to go through reports again the next day because she wasn't looking for Dancing Cabbages. She was looking for expense reports for a former employee of the cooperative, a man whose name was Dan Sincavage.

That episode was just the precursor. The next occurred in the middle of the week when I was asked to drive an old four-wheel drive pickup to interview an old couple who lived southeast of Baker, Montana...almost where the states of Montana, North Dakota and South Dakota meet.

When I reached their ranch, I spied a big pile of manure across the road from their home. After conducting the interview, I asked the old man if he would mind loading up the pickup with manure because I hoped to start a garden in the spring and the manure would fertilize the soil that I planned to spade up in March or April.

I was living in an apartment in Glendive, and the landlord had told me that he wouldn't care if I planted a small garden behind the parking lot.

The old rancher was very generous with his manure and he used a tractor to pile it nice and high in the back of the pickup. The old couple thanked me for coming to visit and asked me to stop by again if I was ever on their road because of travels for the cooperative.

As I left their ranch, I was delighted with myself. Not only had I gotten the interview and photos for the cooperative's monthly magazine, but I also had this load of fertilizer. And then somewhere between Baker and Glendive, my mood changed. The gray sky opened up and it began to rain, and then it began to snow. By the time I pulled into my parking lot, the manure had turned to a large frozen mass.

The next day, I drove the pickup -- manure and all -- to Circle. However, thinking that I could somehow sneak by without getting caught, I parked the pickup on the edge of town and walked the two blocks to the center of town and the headquarters of the co-op.

It was getting late into the afternoon and I thought I had been successful. But then my boss called me into his office and asked me to swing the pickup around as there were some bills that he wanted me to load into the back of the pickup and take to the post office in Circle, which was also about two blocks away.

Needless to say, he wasn't too keen on the idea of me using a cooperative-owned vehicle to haul a load of manure for this garden that I intended to start in the spring.

In fact, he told me that the next time he saw the pickup, the manure had better be gone and I had better have the back-end cleaned out.

As it turned out, this was a Friday so I drove back to Glendive in the pickup and then I drove to Roundup to visit my folks for the weekend. My dad gave me a small pick that he used for hunting rocks so that I could chop out the frozen manure before I drove the pickup back to Circle on Monday.

So on a cold Sunday night in January, I backed up the pickup full of manure to a spot where I hoped to plant a garden. I threw a trouble light over a tree limb and I picked at the manure until I had chopped up the frozen top layer. Then with a shovel, I was able to remove all of the rest of the manure. It probably took a couple of hours before every last inch of manure had been removed from the back of the pickup.

As I look back now, these episodes are funny. But at the time, they were serious glitches in good judgement. Luckily, my supervisor was an understanding fellow and later we became good friends. However, at the time, I was wondering if I was going to be able to work long enough to cash my first check.

These stories came to mind because a guy I know was telling me about a job opening in Circle, Montana, and wanted to know if I might be interested. I asked him what it entailed and he said I would be the manager of a gas station. With my luck in Circle, I had to quickly decline. Otherwise I might blow up the whole town.

Fighting a summer cold

How much ambition do I have today? Zero. Nada.

I've been fighting ragweed allergies this week and I think they've now turned into a cold. By tomorrow or the next day, it might manifest itself into bronchitis as I'm already wheezy and spitting up phlegm.

I took a Saturday afternoon nap, which isn't unusual. What is unusual is that I slept for three and a half hours. Also, I missed watching the Yankees win on TV. I knew they were playing but if I had watched them, I would have fallen asleep in the chair. So I decided to fall asleep in bed.

Tomorrow, we have a full calendar of events so I'm really hoping to feel better. But if not, there is always the walk-in clinic.

I planned on writing some more about my hacking cough, fever, runny eyes so you know exactly how I feel...but if you've ever seen a commercial for Dristan, you understand how I feel.

When I was growing up, I think my dad was addicted to Dristan. Now I don't think they even make it any more. Household medicines have changed over the years. We used to have either aspirin or children's aspirin. Now there's Tylenol and Advil and a bunch of knock-offs.

For colds, we use to take either Dristan or Contact. Both of them would dry out my sinuses and generally ended up with a nosebleed. I don't think they make Contact either...at least we don't buy it if they do.

I've never been very good at swallowing pills, so I always try to find the smallest pills I can take. Today, I went to the pharmacy to buy a multi-vitamin. I asked the cashier what was the smallest multi-vitamin he had. He opened a box and took out the pill bottle. Then he unscrewed the lid. Of course, there was a seal on the top of the bottle.

"I don't know," he admitted.

So I bought the bottle he held in his hand. It not only said it was a multi-vitamin but also formulated especially for men. I can't imagine what special ingredients it might have contained just for men, but it was enough to sway me to buy them.

When I got them home and popped the seal with a sharp knife, the pills were huge....three times bigger than the little red vitamin pills I had been taken. So I thought there must be something interesting in the vitamins. Of course, you're way ahead of me on this one. Most of the pill is simply inert ingredients. I guess it won't kill me, but I would just like to take a small pill without having to gag every morning. And the vitamins stink. I won't be smelling them before I take them.

The other bad thing for me about having a cold, or a cough or a runny nose...is that my dad seems to catch everything that is brought into the house.

So my outlook for this cold goes like this...I'll probably go to the walk-in clinic tomorrow and I'll probably have to take dad to the walk-in clinic later during the week.

Provocative "life" questions

I saw these questions on another blog and thought they would act as fodder for an article. They are questions that we typically ask ourselves when we reach a certain age.

Questions people are asking by the decade:

• 20's Who am I? How am I different from my family? What will I do? Am I capable of love? Is there anyone who would love me?
• 30's How do I cope with the demands of life and all these people who want a piece of me? What can't I follow through? How come I feel like I can never please anyone? What happened to my friends?
• 40's What happened to me as a child? Why are others doing better than me? Why am I so disappointed in myself? Isn't it supposed to be better than this dull-drum life? Why these uncertainties?
• 50's Why is time moving so fast? Why is my body unreliable? How do I deal with failures/successes? Why is my marriage not great? Are the best years of my life over?
• 60's When do I stop doing the things that define me? Am I ready for old age? Why do I feel separated from the world? Do I have a spiritual legacy?
• 70's Does anyone know who I once was? How much of life do I still control? Why this irritability? How long will people miss me?

Since I'm now "into" my 50s, I'm going to skip the 60s and 70s and concentrate on the earlier decades....starting with the 20s. Truthfully, I was pretty ambitious and looking for "greener" grass during my early 20s. I graduated from the University of Montana at 20 and took my first job. It lasted 6 months. My second lasted two years, my third was three years and at age 26, I found myself newly married, with a new job in a new state and with a new home mortgage. I'm not really sure I had time left to ask myself any questions. I had a lot of energy and wanted to get my life established, begin a family and plant the seeds for a happy existence. One of the things I learned in my 20s is that are two ways of making money...one is to start with a lot of money and two is start with a lot of time. Since I didn't have a lot of money, I began saving. I'm proud to say I've never spent the savings from my 20s and have added to it since. While I'm not rich, I have built some cushion that will help us as we look at retirement. 

I continued to be ambitious in my 30s as well. Here is when I became deeply involved both with my company and with Toastmasters. I saw many opportunities open up to me with both and the synergies were pretty obvious. I was an executive speech writer, whose speeches were being heard in the largest financial markets throughout the United States. Also, I was traveling all over the United States and missing out on what seemed like my children's childhoods. Belinda was often home to raise the children. Some people adore that lifestyle. I didn't and found my career at odds with my values...especially when it ran counter to my children and their needs. So looking at these questions, I'm sure these, in fact, were the questions I was asking. And sometimes I wasn't enjoying the answers. 

In my 40s, I certainly faced a number of uncertainties, especially when I went through a career change at age 41. However, having already proven myself in my 20s and 30s, I had adopted the philosophy of one of Liz Taylor's many husbands who said, "I've been rich and I've been broke, but I've never been poor." As the decade progressed, I poured a lot more time into my family along with my career and decided that I liked the "new" me. 

Now, I've only been in my 50s officially for one year, but I agree that the years go by extremely fast. One son is out of college and beginning his own career and the second son has only two years left...unless he goes to graduate school. So I find myself pondering more and more of life with Belinda...without the children. At least, the children won't be as close as they have been. Grandpa has been an extension of our family for the last four years, but let's face it, he's not going to live forever either. And there's the questions about your human body. No, it doesn't perform like it once did. I had shoulder surgery in my 40s so I'm sure the Yankees won't be coming to sign me as a pitcher in my 50s. Also, my metabolism has slowed if not completely stopped. I'm going to be one who fights a constant battle with his weight. This is troubling when you watch your sons eat and eat, but you know your days of gluttony have ended and not for the better. To win the weight war means to eat less and exercise more. This is hard in North Dakota, especially in the winter when we seemingly have daylight from 10 a.m. to 2 p.m. Food becomes a major portion of what we do for entertainment. 

As for marriage, I couldn't be happier. I met and married my soulmate for life. However, I certainly feel for those who are struggling with their marriages. Life is simply too short and at 50 we know it.

So as I look back at the past 30 years, I'm generally happy with what has transpired. I'm not the eager beaver I was at 25, but I'm the wiser, more practical father and husband whom I'm proud to be. 

Summer activities

Growing up in Roundup, Montana, I saw a few Fourth of July rodeos. Living now in Mandan, North Dakota, I've never been to one....even though Mandan is the rodeo mecca of the state. In Roundup, I went to the rodeos because I knew a lot of the cowboys. Some were even my classmates. However, rodeos were never my cup of tea. I tend to think of them as being hot, dusty and taking up lots of time between events.

If I had my druthers, I would prefer being in a baseball park -- preferably Yankee Stadium -- on the Fourth of July. But I live in North Dakota, not the Bronx, so I'm left watching the men in pinstripes on my TV set. That isn't all bad, because the numerous TV cameras covering a major league baseball game truly give you a better view of the players and the action than watching the game in person. However, there's something about being there. Perhaps that why I still like to go see movies. There's something intrinscally interesting about watching a movie with people you don't know. Sometimes I'm the only person laughing out loud when something obviously hilarious happens to the actors. Did the other people fall asleep or perhaps they are not as clever at picking out the funny parts of the movie?

So I don't go to rodeos, nor baseball games...and actually don't see many movies. So what does occupy my time in the summer?

Probably number one is my garden. I love to grow a garden. Every morning, every evening and sometimes oftener, I go stand beside my garden and see what's growing now. My potatoes and peas are in bloom. I'll be eating peas in a week as some already have pods hanging down. The potatoes won't be harvested until the end of September when they've developed a good thick skin on them. We've eaten a lot of onions and lettuce already. I plant two kinds of lettuce -- leaf lettuce and romaine. Belinda likes to make a salad with both kinds of  lettuce, onions, dill and cream. It's a favorite around the house.

My beefsteak tomato plants, peppers and cucumbers also have budded and now are bearing fruits and vegetables. My winter squash plants are also looking nice but I haven't seen any blooms yet. Carrots and beets are also getting bigger but they need another week or two before I start to pick them. The sooner you pick these two, the sweeter they are...so I won't wait too long before tasting them. However, I'll let some grow though middle of September so we have some for the winter months.

Besides my garden, there is golf. I seem to be playing more golf this year. We always play a lot of golf at Mandan Muni where Scott has a yearly pass. But we've also played several times at Pebble Creek and Tom O'Leary. I'd like to play at Riverwood this summer. That's a beautiful course surround by stately cottonwoods. Tom O'Leary is fun because you are in the middle of town and ever hole seems to have another scenic view of Bismarck - such as the capitol or Bismarck State College.

I'll also play at Apple Creek east of Bismarck at the end of July in the Lignite Energy Council's CoalPac tournament. That event gets special attention because I'll be playing with two of my brothers-in-law along with Scott. We've been doing this event for seven or eight years and it's always a blast. When the golfing is done, we are treated to a big steak and baked potato out on the veranda of the country club. The view is of the verdant Apple Creek Valley covered with trees, bushes, fairways and greens.

There are also family reunions. This weekend, for instance, will be the Frohlich family reunion. When I first started going to these, there were a lot more of the great-grandmas and great-grandpas who showed up. Now, they've died and there are more of the great-grandchildren who show up. It's always interesting to see the new ones and visit with the old ones. Some of these are Belinda's uncles and aunts who we have breakfast with on Saturdays.

Then there is the Mandan Fourth of July parade. In Roundup, we were happy if the parade lasted a half hour...often it was a lot shorter than that. But in Mandan, the parade can last up to two hours or longer. So it's good to have plenty of sunscreen and a cooler with some liquids. A bag with some sunflower seeds and a comfortable chair are also nice. You'll never see more old tractors or horses or politicians that in the Mandan parade. The float from our church and the Mandan marching band in black and white uniforms are also highlights.

Luckily, we live about two blocks from the parade route so it's easy to get to and from Main Street. There's a lot of road construction in Mandan this year so it will be more difficult for people living out of town to see the parade.

Another favorite summer time activity is taking in the "Concerts in the Park." On Mondays through Thursdays, there is live music in Dykshoorn Park from 7:30 p.m. to 8:30 p.m. The Monday night concerts in June are the best because of the patriotic music played by the West River Winds, a big band with a huge sound. John Philip Sousa marches are standard fare and they always close with "Stars and Stripes Forever."

I've probably left out some other activities. But this is pretty standard stuff that I look forward to. The weather is warm in North Dakota during June, July and August so it's a great time to be outdoors. Oh, and I like homemade peach pies in the summer, too.

What I learned about life from a bunch of bird brains

In mid-May, a robin built a nest in our neighbor's bathroom window. We had a "birds-eye" view of the operation because the nest was 10 feet away from our kitchen window.

For about two weeks, the robin (or robins, I couldn't really tell) would come to the nest and incubate the eggs. With each passing day, my anticipation mounted because I wanted to see the baby chicks. When they were born, I was extremely disappointed because the chicks seemed to be nearly naked and were extremely ugly. I guess I thought they would look like the little yellow feathery chicks I saw on TV cartoons.

But mama robin didn't care. She brought all kinds of food to the nest and the babies got to where every day they were "begging" with their mouths wide open and their heads straight up for hours on end waiting to be fed.

With such a voracious appetite, it wasn't long before the chicks started growing. I think it was last Sunday that the nest had become completely full -- too small for the five chicks. The biggest chick was actually sitting on the others. This one was also preening his feathers and fluttering in front of the others. I was sure it wouldn't be long until he (or she) had flown away to hunt for bugs and worms.

Much to my chagrin, by Monday morning there were only two of the five chicks left and by Tuesday morning, they were all gone.

I had become attached to the little buggers or should I say 'bug eaters'. At first, I kept my distance from the nest, but by the time the chicks were growing feathers, I couldn't help myself. I had taken to walking up a step ladder and taking photos with a telephoto lens on a digital camera. I could almost see their eye-teeth in the back of their beaks.

Somehow, mama robin and the baby chicks must have accepted me as a necessary evil of building a home in town...I had become the annoying neighbor that they tried to avoid so I would go away. However, a squirrel in our neighborhood was not as lucky. The squirrel was probably 30 feet away but walking on the fence that went two feet from from the nest. Mama robin started flying as fast as she could and actually ran into Mr. Squirrel. This made a heckuva a thump and Mr. Squirrel quickly turned tail and ran away. Fur and feathers went flying...so did the robin.

Now I'm an empty nester -- actually, even the nest is gone -- so all I have are the memories....and about 2 million photos of mama robin and her chicks.

It's sort of like raising children...but it's too emotional to describe. Remember when the little tykes looked out the window and then came running to meet you when you drove home from work? Now they are gone because they are working themselves. And you are left wondering, "Had a I known it was going to go so fast, I would have done things differently and spent more time with them, and taken more pictures ...so I could enjoy the memories in my old age."

Well, at least next spring I'll have my robins again.

Random thoughts on graduation addresses

In the last couple of weeks, I've heard more than my share of speeches given by graduates and invited guests. As a person who loves to critique, let me offer some "do's" and "don'ts" for future graduation speakers.

Let's start with the "do's."

• You are not the president of the United States giving the State of the Union address, so be mindful of your audience and keep it short. Five minutes will feel like 50 minutes to an audience sitting on wooden bleachers in a high school gym sitting oddly with their neck cocked to see who's speaking. And some in the audience came an hour early to save seats, so remember these brave souls and keep your remarks short. The big event is seeing their loved one receive a diploma...everything else is secondary, including your speech.
• If you must quote someone, stick with Dr. Seuss, Yogi Berra or Will Rogers. This is not the occasion to quote Malcom X, Adolf Hitler, Chairman Mao or some other controversial historical figure.
• Remember that speeches can also entertain, not just bore people. The story to remember is that a speech should be like a mini-skirt...short enough to entice, but just long enough to cover the essentials. 
• Also try to remember who spoke or what they said at your graduation. You can't...so keep this in mind when you decide to give your "earth-shattering" dissertation. Be humble and be one of us. 
• Speak to communicate, not to impress. Your audience will simply find you arrogant if you choose words they don't understand or concepts that are too abstract. 
• If you feel compelled to offer advice to the audience, make sure it's something that can be universally agreed upon, like the old axiom "As you sow, so shall you reap." Leave the New Age philosophy for a coffee house talk on a college campus. 

I know, many of my "do's" sound like "don'ts....but there are also some obvious, plain old "don'ts". 

• Don't talk about issues that are controversial. No need to espouse the evils of global warming because half of your audience doesn't believe it's a problem. If you don't believe me, look at the national polls by George Gallup and others.
• Don't dabble in cliches, such as the "free speech." That's where the college president asks you if you believe in free speech. You say you do and the college president asks if you will speak at the commencement exercise and give a free speech. It was funny once upon a time, but it's now been done to death. 
• Don't offend people in your audience by using language that 30 years ago was questionable but today is deemed offensive. An example is describing a conference on your campus as a "powwow" between the muckety-mucks of your college and other institutions of higher learning. And this example is really one of the tamer ones I've heard. Come on people, this is now 2010. 
• If you are 18 years old and you are the class valedictorian, resist the temptation to tell all the parents and grandparents in the audience about the "keys to success" or the "meaning of life." At 18, you don't have the credentials and you won't be taken seriously. 
• And my last one goes back a few years to when one of my wife's sisters was graduating. The speaker was a retired superintendent in Glendive, Montana, who urged the students to move on to new learning opportunities. Unfortunately, in doing so, he insulted half the audience. He started about by saying that students might want to be teachers, a noble profession, and they could attend Eastern Montana College  as he had done. If they wanted to pursue an engineering degree, why there was always Montana State University or they could attend the University of Montana and seek a degree in geology or business. If they didn't feel they were up to college quite yet, then there was still the military who would train them to be soldiers. And if they didn't have they acumen for being a soldier, there was always "Harvard on the Hill." Now "Harvard on the Hill" was the colloquialism for Dawson Community College, a two-year school, perhaps best known for its rodeo teams. But still, I wondered how many people in the audience had either attended DCC as a full-time student or went to a night class to learn about computers or had a relative as a DCC alumnus. 

So there you have it. Keep it short, don't insult the audience and entertain them for five minutes. The best you can probably hope for is to not be remembered. If you do a terrible job, you will be remembered, but for all the wrong reasons. 

In honor of our mom

This Friday - May 7th - would have been my mom's 86th birthday. She died in June 2006 at the age of 82. The following year, her five children combined their talents through e-mail on a poem to remember her by. The poem was then published in our hometown newspaper, the Roundup Record-Tribune. Here's the poem -- we each wrote a few lines about things we remembered. My brother Randy finished the poem and I think he did a remarkable job.

Tribute to a loving mother, Evelyn Van Dyke

Every corner of my house holds memories

of the kind and caring woman my mother was to me.

My shelves are lined with porcelain figures

and ageless pictures of family.

A cross dangling gently from a window

 reminds me of her spiritual life.

In the yard, a meadowlark sings of springtime

 and we stroll together in my mind.

 I remember her kitchen with meat and potato dinners

and pies baked while we awaited friends and family.

Her smile welcomed all,

and everyone had a place and a plate to join in.

The secrets she knew, she shared with no one.

But good news of her extended family was conversation for many.

The sparkle in her eyes and the smile on her face were natural and genuine.

The world  might be hard but mom some how knew how to soften the landings.

She was rich in things that mattered – love, caring, sharing and feelings.

She could cry, or be stoic and she was often proud,

but never boastful of those she loved and held most dear.

 Although she bore the affects of diabetes and heart problems,

 she complained little,

  never let on that she had pain.

 Mom once said she felt like she was still 16;

 she never gave into feeling old --

Always ready for a drive and a game of cards.

“I thought of you again today, and asked God to say hello.

I know how happy you are when we call home.

I just like to stay in touch, may the Lord let you know

And I’m sure that He does, we love you very much”.

-- Your Children

An Easter Story

Crash, tumble, tumble, tumble, thud, moan…I didn’t actually hear the car wreck or see the driver thrown from the SUV…but I did hear my phone ring. It was 2 a.m. on April 5th 2009, and an emergency room nurse from Glendive was calling to tell us that our 17-year-old niece Janelle had fallen asleep on her way home and was found unconscious beside the highway on a frozen stretch of prairie by a couple of truck drivers. Janelle had called her parents at midnight and said she was driving home. When an hour passed and she hadn’t made it to the ranch, her dad went out in search of her. About 15 miles from home, he came upon the accident scene. The truck drivers had covered her with blankets and had called for an ambulance. She was alive…but just barely. In Glendive, the doctors and nurses determined that her injuries, including numerous broken bones, were beyond their level of care. As luck would have it, there was already a plane flying to Glendive from Bismarck. It was originally called for another person injured in a car wreck that same night. However, the family gave up that plane to Janelle as their loved one had been declared brain dead.

So after our phone call, began one of the longest nights of our lives. We didn’t know how soon the plane would be landing in Glendive and taking off with Janelle, so we decided to get up and go to the hospital in Bismarck and wait. And we waited. At about 7 a.m., an ambulance pulled into the hospital’s garage bay and I could see a team of medical professionals run out to take the gurney holding Janelle into the emergency room. Janelle’s mom, Amy, greeted us shortly in the waiting room. Her eyes were red and swollen from the tears she had already cried.

About an hour later, we were called into a small room and briefed by a doctor who told us the extent of her injuries: broken arms, broken legs, broken pelvis and the concussion to her brain. The outlook was pretty bleak.

We kept vigil at the hospital. Later that day, Janelle was moved to ICU. We waited and waited. Periodically, we got further briefings as the results of additional tests were released. Janelle’s dad had gone back to the ranch and loaded up his vehicle with suitcases full of clothes, not knowing how long his daughter would be in the hospital. His cows were calving but his neighbors would take over. Eventually, there would be planting, but his neighbors helped him with that as well. He arrived in Bismarck later in the morning. When he saw me, he came and threw his big arms around me and squeezed me. He finally could show some emotion and he cried. Trying to comfort him, I told him, “Don’t worry…everything would be all right.”

As soon as I said it, I regretted it. How did I know? I’m not a doctor. And the doctors I saw weren’t very optimistic. Later that afternoon, I got into ICU to see Janelle. She was swollen…to the point where it looked like her skin might pop. She was hooked onto several machines that were doing everything for her – breathing, feeding, you name it. She even had a tube connected to the top of her head. The doctors had removed a part of her scalp and her skull because they thought her brain would swell and they wanted to relieve the pressure. My beautiful niece – my god child – lie there motionless with her eyes closed. I had seen people motionless before. They were dead.

A week later was Easter…everyday or every evening for a week we had gone to the hospital. So for Easter, we all agreed to bring some food to the waiting room so we could share a meal together as we continued our vigil. Shortly before noon, the doctors called Janelle’s parents into a small room and gave them horrifying news. If she hadn’t started getting better by then, chances were slim to none that she would recover. With that added grief, we said our prayers and ate dinner…in silence.

Days turned into weeks and the news kept getting grimmer. She had opened her eyes, which we thought was a good sign, until we heard: “The lights are on, but nobody is home.” When a month had nearly passed, she was moved from the hospital in Bismarck to a swing unit in Mandan. More bad news. The doctors said she was just taking up a bed in Bismarck.

And then something happened…about five weeks after her accident. Her brother who was attending college in Montana came to Mandan one weekend and was taunting her, as brothers tend to do to their sisters. The people in the room were shocked when Janelle raised her middle finger as if giving her brother the bird. It might be the first and only time in our lives that we were happy to see such a thing.

Slowly at first, but with every passing day she began to wake up. She had to learn to walk again, to talk again, to use the bathroom again. Then she was moved back to the Bismarck hospital for more intensive therapies as the beginning of her senior year was fast approaching.

She started classes last fall in Glendive taking not only new classes, but also finishing the ones she hadn’t completed her junior year. She still suffered from some short-term memory loss, but doctors at the University of Minnesota told her parents that her memory would recover…just give it some time. And in the mean time, she would have to rely on notes.

Next month she will graduate and next fall she will start college. She’s come a long way in a year. This past weekend, about 30 of us gathered, at her home on the ranch between Glendive and Circle for Easter. It was largely the same 30 who had spent last Easter in the hospital.

This Easter I went up to her dad and threw my arms around him. We didn’t have to say anything. We both had the same thoughts. What a relief to be celebrating Easter on the Scheitlin Ranch.

But I had another nagging thought. Some people have a hard time celebrating Easter or believing the Easter story of how Jesus rose from the grave. But somehow seeing the miracle of Janelle LaRae Scheitlin first hand has strengthened my faith. I can tell you that her doctors didn’t think she was going to make it. The emergency room and acute care doctors are more shocked to see her alive and graduating from high school as an honor roll student than any of us.

Walking and sitting outside

Sunday, March 21, was memorable for several reasons. Among them were: Belinda and I took our first walk outside since last Fall. We're at an age where slipping on ice isn't an option so we wait until the ice has melted before we begin our walks.

Second, Grandpa and I sat outside and watched the cars and the trains. We didn't stay too long, but at least we were outside for a while.

While sitting outside, I made some observations. We have a new neighbor that we haven't met. That's because of the winter hibernation that we do in North Dakota. Hopefully, now that it warms up and we see people working in their yard, I will venture across the street and introduce myself.

Also, the snow pack has taken it's toll on the lawn. The grass is mashed down. Completely laying over on its side. I wonder if it will perk it's head up or will we need to rake to make the lawn look healthy again.

I also noticed the ducks and the geese flying north. The ducks are quiet. The geese are honking as they follow the river.

Lastly, I noticed a majestic pair of evergreens in a neighbors yard. I remember staring at the trees back in 2001 when I didn't have a job. I would be waiting at home for the phone to ring, and I would stare out the picture window at the big, majestic evergreens. They are beautiful trees, but when the leaves pop out on the other trees, the two evergreens simply fade into the background. But before the leaves bud, the evergreens are "king of the castle."

I don't know how much room the trees take up in the neighbor's yard, but it looks like a considerable amount...judging from my vantage point. Yet, I'm thankful for the homeowner who has never cut them down because they truly are beautiful....especially when they have a coating of snow on them.

But I didn't say that because I've seen enough snow for a long while. The snow that still lingers is like the last leaf on a tree in the fall. It knows it's days are numbered.

What happened to February

Generally, I try to write at least one post on my blog a month. But February was obviously an exception. In looking back, I can sum up February in one word, "WINTER."

I swear winter in North Dakota gets worse every year. I remember it was that way in the mid-1990s also. One time I said, "One more winter like that and I'm leaving." The next several winters were actually pretty nice and I got lulled into staying. Now I'm thinking I'm too old to leave. Also, for the next two years, I need to not only keep a job but keep a job that pays pretty well so that Scott can finish college debt free. So, while I'm not saying I'll be moving any where soon, it would be nice to go back to those milder winters.

Last winter we got our Christmas decorations down in late February. This year, some of them are buried under the snow and we haven't even tried to remove the Christmas lights along the fence because we would be standing in three-foot drifts of snow. As it turns out, I'm the kind of people I used to make fun of. If we don't have a spring thaw, I may just leave the Christmas stuff up all year.

If next fall, Belinda wants to put up the inflatable snowman with the sign that says "Let it Snow", I may go outside and personally vandalize it. I've had enough.

Another sign of winter is the disappearance of your neighbors. I know they are still alive because I see vapor coming from their chimneys, but I don't see the neighbors. They are not out grilling or weeding the garden. We might as well be bears who hibernate through the winter.

This morning, the roads and highways were a sheet of ice because it rained in the middle of the night or early this morning and it froze. Tomorrow, we're expecting more snow. The weather forecasters say they don't really have a clue how much snow we can expect because storms this time of year are hard to predict.

Well, speaking for my snowblower, I hope if we do get snow, it's the light and fluffy stuff. I have had March snows that are so heavy that the snowblower is useless. Then you have two choices -- either wait for the snow to melt (my favorite) or shovel the driveway by hand (my wife's favorite).

So March has come in like a lamb. Very little wind, lots of fog and absolutely no spring thaw. While I know that it appears there is no end to this winter in sight, the sun is starting to crawl up from the horizon where it slept all winter and one of these days it will be warm enough to melt the snow and ice. And then we get our one month of spring before it turns unbearably hot for three months before our one month of fall. Then it's WINTER again.

If this blog were a book of the Bible, it would definitely be Lamentations. Nuff said.

A rookie's attempt at "Meals on Wheels"

You haven't lived until you have slipped and slid up and down 20 steps to deliver food to the elderly...part of the "Meals on Wheels" program. You should have seen my jaw drop when I found out I hadn't brought enough food the first time so I would have to navigate up and down the icy steps another time.

A friend of ours had surgery this week and he asked for some help. For the past dozen years, he and his wife have represented our church in delivering meals on wheels to a dozen or so elderly in Mandan.

He told us that it would take about 45 minutes. Pick up the food at the Golden Age Club at 11 a.m. and deliver it to the addresses. No problem right? Wrong.

First of all, the food wasn't ready when we first arrived. So we had to come back 20 minutes later. Then we received two larges Thermos containers. In one of them appeared to be sack lunches. I didn't look in the other. Big mistake.

So, like hound dogs looking for a bone, my wife Belinda and I set off in our car to find the first address...in a part of town we've never been. Having located it, I brought out a sack lunch and handed it to a young lady...maybe a caretaker I thought, at the address. Then I was back in the car looking for the second house a half dozen blocks away. The same scenario played out only this time an old, stooped man was waiting and looking out the door for my arrival.

"Wow, I'm getting the hang of this," I thought.

The third house was behind the abandoned Jr. High building...on the side of a steep hill. There were two sets of steps with a landing in between. It didn't take me long to figure out why the steps weren't cleaned off. The people getting these meals are often home-bound. But the steps were covered with rutted ice and very treacherous. With sack in hand, I held on to the rail and made it up the steps to the house. Inside was an elderly, frail man sitting in a chair with the TV turned up full blast. He had just hung up his phone as I entered the house.

"That was a gal calling for you," he said. "You need to bring us a hot meal along with the cold sandwich...and you need to go back to the other two houses and give them their hot meal as well."

What? I didn't hear anything about two meals...but after sliding down his stairs and checking the other Thermos, I saw that he was correct. There were as many hot meals as there were sacks. So back up the steps I went. I apologized for my error. He mumbled something, and I went back down the steps, this time holding on to the rail with both hands.

I broke the news to my wife that I had blundered and that we would need to re-track. No problem. This time we had an easier time finding the homes that we searched for the first time. To add a little suspense to the goings on, my cellphone rang so my wife got to take the hot dishes to the surprised recipients and express our apologies with her warm, sincere smile. I'm not all that good at that.

Then it was off to a pair of houses where it said the recipients were diabetic. Now, if you know anything about diabetics, they like to eat on time. And if they're blood sugar falls, they can get a little snippy. Well, that must have been what happened. Belinda took one set of meals (hot and cold) and I took the other. I was greeted at the door by a daughter who told me her mom was not so happy with the service this day because we were late and she was hungry.

By this time, I had finished polishing up my apology. So out it came...with some added flourishes. And I was off.

The next house was interesting because I had to go to the door in the alley. Inside the house was a woman who was obviously deaf because she didn't hear my knock, she didn't hear me enter nor did she hear me holler at her. When she turned around, there I was. "Surprise."

Anyway, it was all I could do not to laugh because she walked over to me with the same tiny footsteps that I had see Tim Conway take on so many episodes of the Carol Burnett show. I should've known they were based on real life, but until today, I hadn't not figured that out.

The next two recipients were at the Lewis & Clark Hotel in downtown Mandan. Once upon a time, the hotel was probably pretty classy as it's located across Main Street from the former Northern Pacific Railroad Depot. However, that day of classiness has long passed. I've been in the hotel before and it smells to high heaven.

Not wanting to get sick, I asked Belinda if she would deliver the last two meals. She agreed. So I stayed in the car with Grandpa and answered another cellphone call. After a while Belinda returned. We were done.

I asked her if the place still smelled. She assured me that it did. I told her I thought it smelled like an old sweaty gym sock. She said it smelled like years of stale cigarette smoke. We agreed that it smelled bad.

As we were driving back to the Golden Age Center to return the containers, Belinda said, "Well, that wasn't so bad." That caught me off guard.

But then I thought, "I'm sure if we do it again, it will be a lot better."

But if I learned anything from it, perhaps, it was this: "Grandpa really leads the life of Riley because he lives with us. His meals are always hot and he isn't wondering if some rookie 50-year-old will be delivering his meal 15 minutes late or giving him only a cold sack lunch when there is a hot meal that's been bought and paid for."

By the way, the hot meal looked exactly like a TV dinner.

Communication miracles

When I was a little boy, we had a party line telephone that we shared with one of our neighbors. My Grandma Van Dyke, who lived on the edge of town, had a party line phone she shared with what seemed to be hundreds of neighbors. If all her neighbors decided to rubberneck on the conversation, she would have to tell them to get off or the call would get so weak that you couldn't hear her speak.

Obviously, we've come a long way in 50 years. Now most people I know carry a phone on their hip and they aren't sharing the signal with even one other person. Cell phone conversations can be so crisp that you think the person you're talking to is in the next room and not three or four states away.

Mostly, that's because today's telephone signals are digital rather than analog. Do you remember when we had dial phones? The dial would send an analog signal to a central exchange and connect you to the right party. You could actually hear the click, click, click of the equipment moving in the telephone exchange office. Now we hear a beep, beep or perhaps nothing at all.

But that's just one of the marvels of modern communication. This holiday season, I enjoyed meeting Derek's girlfriend's family -- who live in Brazil -- through the little camera on her computer and the little camera on our computer.

The cost of the call? Well, really there wasn't a cost, at least not anything additional from the monthly Internet fee we already pay. And yet we could talk to them and look at them.

Again, I remember Dick Tracy from the Sunday comics when I was young. He had a watch where he could talk and look at someone at the same time. Man, I thought that was pure science fiction...never gonna happen. And yet, it has. Maybe we aren't using a watch, but can it be very far off if we can do it on our computers and computers can be wireless?

I'm also enjoying the heck out of Facebook. It used to be that a family had to have a reunion somewhere and it involved a lot of people driving many miles if they wanted to visit with each other. Now, through Facebook, I'm in regular contact with a lot of my family -- cousins, second cousins, children of cousins, etc. -- simply by logging on to my trusty Facebook account.

Since I'm a communicator by trade, there's no real shortage of things for me to comment on -- Grandpa, my family, politics, religion, visitors, current events, you name it. If asked my opinion, I'm NOT smart enough to be tactful and keep it to myself. So I'm sure my extended family has figured out that I'm liberal Democrat who can't wait to have the government spend everyone else's money. My motto is: "the only fair tax is the one that I don't have to pay." So if the party in power sticks it to the rich or to the bankers, I know that it won't effect me one iota -- because I don't shop at stores that are owned by rich people, buy energy from utilities owned by rich people or have a bank account that could possibly have increased fees to pay for increased taxes. In a sentence, I'm gullible enough to believe that what politicans tell me is good for me, really is good for me. They are much smarter with my money than I am.

See, there I go again, espousing my opinions. So here's to digital communciations. Don't you feel like you've just been lectured again by grumpy Uncle Steve, but it's clearer now because of modern technology.

Following in the steps of typewriters and carbon paper...

Over my Christmas vacation, I read a story about the things that are on their way to extinction. No this has nothing to do with climate change and the polar bears, black-footed ferrets or whooping cranes...this extinction is caused by the advances made in technology.

A couple things on the list seemed a little hard to believe. I suppose that's because I'm 50 and I've grown up with them, but young people don't seem to be as enamored by them as were their parents.

The first is the land-line telephone. The writer of the article believes that land-line telephones will be extinct in 10 years.

Now I remember turning 20, graduating from college and landing my first job as a reporter. Along with my first job, came my first apartment and my first phone. At that time, the phone company was a monopoly (Gasp!) and so my new phone was from the Bell telephone company. I rented my phone from them because they didn't sell them in discount stores. That was part of the monopoly deal. However, I couldn't wait to have my own phone because it meant that I would get my name printed in the telephone directory. That was a sign of adulthood...in fact, it was one of the last signs of being an adult since the drinking, voting and every other thing in the world occurred when you were 18 in those days.

Now young people don't seem to want to have their name in the phone book, so they opt for the cell phone. Even some old people don't seem to care because they have given up their land-line phones too.

However, I have adopted the "over my cold body" defense. First, if I don't have my name and number in the telephone book, I won't be bothered by survey companies and telemarketers...and you know how much I like to be called by these two bastions of society. (Actually, the word bastion was originally going to be another another word that sounds like bastion and starts with the same four letters, but I digress).

Now besides land-line telephones, the second thing on the list toward extinction is face-to-face conversation. The author of the article believes that texting (on cell phones) will replace simple, every day conversation.

Now I'm sure that what he writes he believes, because I have seen young people sitting around in the same room texting to each other rather than just talking. But seeing it doesn't make it right.

This past week, I was visited by numerous nieces and nephews along with my in-laws and my brother. You could see that the older people (including myself) enjoyed the friendly banter while the young people looked down at their crotches and continued to text each other.

My brother and I don't know how to text and I don't think we're going to learn. I'm pretty sure the same goes for my dad and my in-laws. So if face-to-face conversations end by the end of the decade, it's not going to be a very fun place for the chatterers among us.

My second grade teacher, Mrs. Cebull, identified me early on as a chatterbox. And let it be known that she was right. I'm the one who will start a conversation in a crowded elevator with a perfect stranger.

But I will not text.

So in the coming years, I will keep my eyes and ears open for land-line telephones and face-to-face conversations to see if they will disappear into history the way carbon paper and typewriters have. Carbon paper has been replaced by copiers and typewriters by personal computers, such as the one I'm typing on today. Here's to a new year and a new decade, but let me keep my phone and my mouth.