The first year we were married, I worked in the newsroom on Christmas Day. I think Nancy had the whole day off. She was working at the hospital, and I was a photographer for the newspaper. Our first child, a daughter, was two and one-half weeks old, and we couldn't make it home to Chamberlain. Now that I've been a grandparent for quite a while, I know how difficult that must have been for my folks and Nancy's folks. At the time, I just thought it was a bad deal for us, and especially me, because I had to work in the newsroom. It was a short shift, I have to admit.
Way back in the 1970s, Bob Karolevitz wrote a history book called "Challenge: The South Dakota Story." The reason for the title was obvious then and now. South Dakota offers many challenges to the people who would live, work and raise families here. It isn't always for the faint at heart. The notion of challenges struck me the other day as I read the front page of The Daily Republic.
By now, everyone who knows me knows my decision to major in journalism was because of Francis Church and Virginia O'Hanlon, and of course Merle Adams. Mrs. Adams taught Latin and journalism at Chamberlain High School. She guided the staff of the school newspaper, and she carried a briefcase that was nearly as big as she was. At CHS, we called her "Granny" behind her back. We didn't think she knew. Years later, I realized, of course, she knew. There's not a chance in the world that Mrs. Adams didn't know that was going on.
The latest sign that the world is changing far more quickly than I can keep pace: A daily newspaper story says some of the public universities in South Dakota are going to quit offering landline telephone service in student dormitories. When I read that story, the image in my mind was of the two phone booths in the lobby of Wareham Hall, where I lived during my year at Creighton University. The booths were pretty much like the public phone booths you'd see on street corners in any city of any size back in the 1960s -- tall, square boxes with a bi-fold door and a coin-fed telephone.
A number of people I've known who reach their 60s and retirement have used the so-called Golden Years to travel around the country. Well, Nancy and I have never really been big travelers. If there isn't a kid or a grandkid at the end of the trip, there isn't much reason to make the journey. For us, the journey has never been an end in itself. It's about the destination and how much of our family is at that destination. Still, we were asked once where we'd like to go if we could make a trip. Nancy, if I remember correctly, said she'd always thought she might like to see Hawaii.
I look at my calendar, and suddenly Christmas is barely three weeks away. Where did fall go? Actually, I checked the calendar only after seeing an Associated Press story in one of the daily newspapers. The story is one of those old chestnuts that some reporter drags out each year about this time. It runs through that holiday song "The Twelve Days of Christmas," and calculates how much it would cost in today's dollars to buy for your true love all of the items mentioned in the song. Forget for a moment that I wouldn't know where to pick up most of those things.
The day after Thanksgiving in 1960, I boarded a school bus with the rest of the Chamberlain Cubs varsity basketball team and traveled to Deadwood for two evenings of hoops. That may seem commonplace these days, but taking a school road trip on a holiday weekend was a very big deal half a century ago. Think of it. We were out of school, no classes, the day after a major family holiday, and the basketball team was on its way to the Black Hills. What's more, we weren't coming home that night. We were staying overnight in a fancy hotel and playing a second game on Saturday.
There's a lot of good to be said for medical research, but sometimes the recommendations of new studies make me wonder how things can change so suddenly. I wondered that last week when a new federal report on breast-cancer screening upended 30 years' worth of recommendations about selfexams and annual mammograms.
I rode the bus halfway home from Omaha for Thanksgiving the first year I was out of the house and away at college. The bus depot in Omaha wasn't far from the Creighton University campus, but in the middle of the night it was a long walk for a skinny farm kid carrying a suitcase. The depot was pretty close to what was downtown Omaha back in 1962, but there weren't many folks moving on the shadowed streets. The bus from the south arrived at some unbelievably early hour. Afraid to be left behind, I arrived about 60 minutes before that unbelievably early hour.
Sales people almost always try to learn your name, so they can use it again and again in their pitches. Politicians do it a lot, too. The goal is to make things a little less formal, as if the person who just interrupted your evening or Saturday afternoon is a long-lost friend whose only reason for showing up at your door is to show you a product or service that you simply can't live another day without. I can be cynical about the personal approach as a sales technique, but I know it sometimes works.