During a sophomore psychology class in college, I sat next to a giant, a football lineman named Dave. He stood about 6-foot-4 and weighed something like 220 pounds. When he walked in and took his seat, the floor of the classroom trembled. OK, maybe I'm exaggerating that part, but I'm pretty sure the floorboards groaned. He had to turn sideways to get his shoulders through the door, too.
One of my best days as a reporter covering the Sturgis Motorcycle Rally happened when a photographer and I crossed the border into Wyoming for the “Ham N Jam’’ at Hulett.
I spent a solid hour the other afternoon watching a television program in which a young couple tried to decide which island to buy. Seriously, I zoned out in front of the television, and when I regained an awareness of my surroundings, I realized I'd just been watching a show about two people shopping for an island. An island, for Pete's sake. Who goes out and buys an island?
Back in 2010, I read about a guy named Steve McCurry who got the last roll of color film Eastman Kodak ever produced. Kodak, like other companies in the photo business, had determined that digital photography was the future and that rolls of film — the kind old folks like me remember buying and winding into our Brownie Hawkeye cameras — were like dinosaurs. So McCurry received the final roll of Kodachrome film. He had 36 frames, 36 chances to capture meaningful images — no deleting files and starting over, no bad exposures, for sure no selfies.
When I was a kid, summer was incomplete without a family vacation, always by car and usually across multiple states at break-neck speed. We must have looked like Ma and Pa Kettle and their big brood of young ones as we puttered down the road. Our family was seven, two adults and five kids. That's a lot of bodies to cram into one car for hours at a time. For several years we drove a Nash. We graduated to a Pontiac station wagon and rode like lords. We probably still looked like the Kettle family, but we didn't care. We had a new car.
The first time I ever heard of the concept of traveling teams, our younger son came home from fifth grade and told us he'd been left off one. I remember thinking, "Wait a minute. In fifth grade you can't not let a kid be on a basketball team if he wants to play, can you?" See, I was thinking a school team of some sort. I didn't know there were organized teams that involved school kids but that weren't school sponsored or sanctioned or whatever the word should be.
This is the time of year when the hot, dry weather we've endured recently used to suck every drop of moisture from the fields and pastures and stock dams back home. Many years in the spring, we'd get the kinds of rains that would fill the dams to overflowing. Sometimes spring would be so wet that my dad and the neighbors would begin to wonder if they'd ever get into the fields to plant spring grains and corn. Some years we'd be trying to mow and windrow alfalfa while huge puddles of water glistened in the low spots in every hay field.
When you've been out of high school for more than half a century, you go to a class reunion not so much wanting to impress the old gang as hoping you'll recognize people with whom you shared 12 kind-of-important growing-up years.
I joined the news staff at the Sioux Falls Argus Leader as a photographer in 1967, but as soon as I met John Egan, I knew I wanted to work in sports.
We had a wind storm tear through our part of town the other evening, and I didn't even see it coming. I'm out of practice. Too many years of living in the city, relying on the TV meteorologists or the radar on my smartphone. Too many years of letting other folks track the skies for me. Time was, since I am a farmer's son, I'd have seen the storm building two or three hours before the wind picked up.