Back in high school, I drove a 1958 Chevrolet Biscayne that looked a lot like an Impala without the ton of chrome or romping V-8 engine. The Biscayne was a four-door model, with a six-cylinder engine and a stick shift -- "three on the tree," the car nuts called that model. My dad had a thing about six-cylinder engines, and the Chevy got good gas mileage. Ron Ballou and I could pool our pocket change, pump in a buck-ten's worth of gas and drag main all night long. The Chevy wasn't mine. It was a family car we paired with a 1956 Pontiac three-seat station wagon.
Sometimes it's good for me to be reminded that I have it pretty good. I have an old friend who always, when asked how he is doing, replies, "Best day of my life." I was around him on some days that weren't all that great, but I never heard him say anything but "best day of my life" when asked the question. I've developed a similar reply when people ask how things are going. "Couldn't be better," I like to say, whether I'm knee-deep in clover or up to my ears in quicksand.
One thing I should never do on Father's Day is start thinking about the mistakes I made trying to raise my kids. They turned out great. That is largely their mother's doing, and I have written in a half-serious way that the three children should send me a card on Mother's Day. If I hadn't asked her to dance that evening back in 1961 at the post-game sock hop, we might not have gotten together, and the kids would have ended up with a different mother. (I know.
As I mowed my lawn the other day, it occurred to me that I was engaged in a really foolish activity. It was Sunday afternoon, warm and breezy. I hadn't been out of the office for quite a stretch of days. I wore faded shorts and my old "Every Day Is Saturday" T-shirt (given to me by a retired friend during the few months I was retired back in 2009). The simple pleasure I was taking from pushing a mower through scraggly grass bordered on sinful. Then the question of what I was doing popped into my head, and I lost some of my enthusiasm. Sure, the lawn needed mowing.
It's been 39 years since a flash flood in the Black Hills killed 238 people in Rapid City and surrounding communities. The 1972 flood began with torrential rains in the higher elevations of the Black Hills on the afternoon and evening of June 9, a Friday. By sunrise of the following day, most of the water that came crashing down the valleys of the Black Hills and through the downtown of Rapid City had run off and away to the east. It was that quick.
If you live anywhere near Pierre or Fort Pierre these days, there isn't much to talk about besides the Missouri River flooding. I haven't been out of the office enough to see much of the two communities first hand, but after more than 40 years as a resident of the capital city, I think I know the area pretty well. We bought our first boat in 1974. We're on our third one now. It's nine years old and has pounded its way up and down the channel below the Oahe Dam and across the broad water of the reservoir above the same.
A television commercial that seems to play a lot shows a couple getting ready for bed when the wife asks the husband if he would remarry if she were gone. The punch line comes after the wife asks if her golf clubs would be used by the new woman. The husband says no, and adds, "She's left-handed." My wife always laughs at the commercial for some reason.
I have a friend who served in the Army in Korea. After his hitch was up, he returned to Pierre in time for the great Missouri River flood of 1952. He's a terrific storyteller, with a good memory for detail.
The month of May is nearly over, and I forgot to mention that it's National Nurses Month. That's pretty important where I live, because I married a nurse. It comes in pretty handy when you're raising a couple of rambunctious boys to have a full-time registered nurse on staff. "Is there a doctor in the house? No, but we have a nurse." That will do nicely when the older son, age 8 or 9, free-wheels his new bicycle down the sidewalk on the hill next to the high school, can't get the brakes to work and crashes into the lawn, driving one end of the handlebar into his cheek.
Everyone in this part of the country has a Harmon Killebrew story, and his recent death gave many people a chance to share their favorite tale. When I mentioned the former Minnesota Twins baseball player at the office the day after he died, a co-worker looked mildly confused. "You know who Harmon Killebrew is, don't you?" I asked. "Some baseball player," she said, a bit uncertainly, giving me the opening I needed to tell my Killebrew story. I have never liked the Twins; I should say that up front.