Had you offered me 30 points and the Jackrabbits against Nebraska before last Saturday's kickoff in Lincoln, I probably would have turned you down. I'm a loyal SDSU guy, sure enough, but I'm also old enough to have been in college with some of the fellows who played for State the last time the Jacks and the Cornhuskers collided. I didn't remember the final score of the 1963 game, but I knew my team was on the low end of the score by more than 50 points. I learned from the pre-game stories last week that the actual score in 1963 was 58-7.
My friend David Kranz is retiring from the newspaper business, leaving the world of journalism one character short. I don't know if the little man with the unruly hair and shuffling, scurrying gait was what you'd call a great writer. He was a prolific one, though, a dedicated and knowledgeable reporter, and he is one of the most unique individuals ever drawn to this unusual profession. Normal people don't get into journalism. If they do, they don't stay long. It's a business you either love or hate.
Hey, I watched the season premiere of "Hawaii Five-O" the other night on the television. I didn't want to, but I had to. I was a huge fan of the original "Five-0" show back in the late 1960s and through most of the 1970s, and I needed to see what a remake might look like. It wasn't so bad. It wasn't so good, but it could have been worse. I don't know that I'd watch another episode, but I sat through one. The biggest problem the show faces is what I guess you could call the Sean Connery factor. If you were a young adult when the first James Bond film, "Dr.
From the crest of De Grey hill on Highway 34 it is possible to see a long reach of the Missouri River, from the wide corners that lead to the Big Bend all the way upstream toward Pierre. Last Sunday afternoon, that stretch of the river was one long mirror. What a perfect afternoon to be out on the water, I thought to myself. Nancy sighed, then said, "It isn't as calm as it was at Chamberlain." Well, perhaps not. What I could see of the river when we left Chamberlain an hour or so earlier was one big sheet of glass. At De Grey, there may indeed have been a couple of ripples -- maybe.
When the Rapid City flood hit in June of 1972, I had been with The Associated Press for about two years, but I was completely unprepared to cover a news story of that magnitude.No one can really prepare for something like that. How do you imagine something that builds through a rainy Friday afternoon and evening, rages through the night and is gone by sunrise? Before the counting and confirming was finished, 238 people lost their lives in the flood that June weekend.Maybe disaster exercises these days contemplate such an event.
It still seems strange to me for college to start the week before a three-day holiday. That makes one of a college freshman's first major decisions: "Do I run home for the long weekend, or do I stay on campus for three days with no classes?" I have friends with college-age grandchildren who faced that dilemma this year.
Well, that was a change of seasons. Perhaps it was different where you live, but out along the Missouri River, summer turned to fall sometime between Sunday evening and Monday morning. A sunny, 80-plus degree Sunday afternoon turned into a cloudy, 56-degree Monday morning, with showers to dampen streets and lawns. I knew it was coming. In these days of The Weather Channel and instant updates from the local meteorologists, it's impossible not to know what's supposed to come next in local weather.
The college professor who taught the courses I loved most dearly at South Dakota State died late last month. When I learned of her death through an e-mail from her relatives to The Daily Republic, I had a sudden urge to sit once more in her classroom and listen to her talk of her feelings for Coleridge and Gerald Manley Hopkins. Mary Margaret Brown might have kept me in college all those years ago. She taught at South Dakota State University for nearly three decades. My years there coincided with a few of her teaching years. I've said this before, but with her passing it bears repeating.
I once stood in front of a booth at a carnival in Chamberlain for more than an hour listening to the patter from the guy running the place. I can't recall what he was trying to sell. I mean, I know he was asking people to buy something. That's the point of a carnival booth, to get the folks strolling past to stop, listen and buy something, take a chance on something, try their skill at something, whether it is matching numbers, pitching pennies into dishes or knocking cleverly weighted dolls from a shelf with a baseball.
Greg Latza saved my life one afternoon in the parking lot of a hamburger joint in Lead. The farm kid from Letcher is an inductee into the South Dakota Hall of Fame this year. They will tell you he's going into the hall because he makes amazing photographs with his cameras. In truth, he makes the pictures somewhere in his soul. The camera simply records what he sees there. If he hadn't been inducted for photography, I'd have recommended him for life saving. If he hadn't put down that double-sized burger and followed me out to my Jimmy that day, I'd be a goner.