If you leave Interstate 90 at the Pukwana exit and travel south on Highway 50 about seven miles, you'll see off to your left and a mile down a section line a small country church. St. Procopius Church, I think it's called. It's an old-style church — long and narrow, with a steeple rising above the front door. It rest on a modest rise in the farmland. The old siding of the church has been replaced and the roof is metal, but the church carries a sense of dignity and timelessness, as if this place has always been right here and always will be right here.
Earlier this fall, a young man named Colin Kaepernick, a quarterback for the San Francisco 49ers professional football team, made news when he refused to stand for the National Anthem before his team's games.
We've reached the weekend before the nation's general election, but I expect the campaigning and shouting and social media cacophony and crush of TV political spots to remain in high gear right on into Tuesday.
The best part of Halloween this year came an hour or so after the last costumed kid rang our doorbell. That last kid was one of seven visitors we had the entire night. Big change from the days when we lived across from the governor's residence and entertained anywhere from 600 to more than 700 boys and girls every single Halloween, snow, wind, cold, rain or whatever else. We moved to a place in the north part of Fort Pierre a year ago, you know. While the mail carrier and the UPS and FedEx trucks still find us with commendable regularity, the
Before I covered the Jasper Fire west of Custer 16 years ago, I used the word "firestorm'' far too casually. I know I used it a fair amount when I worked for The Associated Press, even though we prided ourselves on not using trite, hackneyed phrases in our dispatches. But it was such an easy word to give phony importance to anything the least bit controversial.
The first time I tried to interview rock and roll superstar Bobby Vee, I got a galloping case of hero worship and had to turn and walk away. Seriously. I knew that if I tried to introduce myself, my tongue would get tied when I tried to speak. My hands already were shaky, and my knees were weak, to quote from "All Shook Up,'' a popular tune by another 1950s rock hero named Elvis Presley.
As I drove past the governor’s residence in my old Pierre neighborhood the other afternoon, I saw at the corner of Washington and Capitol a sculpture of former Gov. Mike...
Back in the campaign season in 1972, Jim Abdnor from Kennebec told me excitedly about a new billboard he had just authorized in his run for Congress. Billboard? Yup. I said "back in 1972.'' Billboards were a pretty big deal for some campaigns in those days. You still see them, but I don't know if people really "see'' them these days. They don't move or talk.
Every fall when pheasant hunting season comes around, I feel a tug of nostalgia about those good old days as a kid on the farm. Folks might think it unusual for me to have a sentimental feeling for the days when I used to hunt pheasants, since I've not done it for half a century or so. The tug of the past may seem odd, too, because I have no desire to go out and tromp the fields again, not even on a Saturday as weather-perfect as the forecasters say this one should turn out to be. Been there, done that. Got the memories.
I couldn't bring myself to watch any of the national political debates, not the first one, not the one last Sunday, not even the one between the candidates for vice president.