SPACEBALLS - the lunch box!

 In one of my all time favorites, Mel Brooks' character Yogurt invites the heroes into his pop up store and exclaims, "Merchandising! Merchandising! Merchandising!" From that moment forward I've wanted a Spaceballs Lunchbox but word on the street is that George Lucas allowed the spoof of his Star Wars series under a few conditions. One of those conditions was that he forbid the production and sale of any figures, characters and other whatnot. That meant - No Merch.

About the time I hit the Northwest Arctic in 2015, a new fad in education was sweeping the nation. Every school from Greenbow, Alabama to Selawik Alaska was "Branding". District leadership across the country must have all attended the same lecture or read the same research that said the way to create interest in education was to adopt a Slogan or to have a Catch Phrase. Schools couldn't get their own acronym fast enough. It wasn't enough to rep your school colors anymore. Logos and Mascots were part of this re-branding. Mugs. T-shirts. Backpacks and about anything you could think of publicized the Brand  and somewhere at the heart of it was another source of income and revenue from unnecessary merch.

When the Selawik Wolves became Selawik STRONG - the Tigers of Rush City were just discovering their ROAR. Right alongside shiny new bumper stickers and fancy scoreboards emblazoned with the Brand, public education decided that it was time to have MISSION STATEMENTS. From my understanding, a mission statement was commonplace in the private sector. Driving the company towards profitability with a single declaration of purpose seemed at place in the dog eat dog world of capitalism. When Mission Statements popped up in education, I felt the same way that I did with the onslaught of merchandising and branding. All seemed unnecessary. 

Isn't the motivation for education implied?

I watched as money was spent on signage and slogans that didn't effectively change to ART of teaching. It seemed wasteful but I toed the company line. When the athletic department followed suit, I created my own purpose statement as to why I was a Transformational Coach rather than a transactional one. 

"I coach to encourage honor, respect, integrity and giving for all of our student athletes." - put it on a Tshirt, Mel Brooks.

Stick with me here....Merchandising, Branding, Selling a Product, Mission and Purpose Statements - all point back to one simple question in my mind. 

WHY?

Why do this? Like I said before, I thought the purpose of education could be implied without some great pronouncement.

But.....

Why do I BLOG?    (a Ha!)

What is my purpose statement for this here Kirby Krew? Do we need a re-branding? Are we the Brand?

When my all knowing wife kicked off this little page I think it was our intention to keep family posted on the happenings of our growing household. We had kin spread out from the north border to the hills of Tennessee. Heck, the snowbirds were spending more and more time in Florida and the blog was a way to share a look into our lives. 

It took a hold and grew. More pictures and more stories were added. It became a digital journal and a way for Michele and I to chronicle to stories of raising a family together. It was and is the precursor to our own little Facebook Memories.

In time, it became a creative outlet for me to tap away on the keyboard and throw a few thoughts down. I found it very therapeutic to write about the few things that run through my pea brain. Our audience grew a bit when I took off for the Arctic. As time pressed on as it always does - I wondered WHY I still Blog?

And then...

Emma will chime in somewhere that she got caught in the rabbit hole of clicking through old stories. When my daughter sends me a random text, laughing about re-reading a story that she's read and heard a hundred times it fuels me. It reminds us why we did this....

Our Kirby Krew Mission Statement:

"I Blog (v) to chronicle and categorize the life and times of our wonderful family. To put digital pen to paper so that one day we can look back and smile at all the fun we had."

Kirby Krew - "the Flamethrower!"

Merchandising. Merchandising! .... sell the Brand.

Turns out Mel Brooks made the movie because he wanted to make a movie - not sell stuff. I write on the blog because I want to write - although I am very proud of our Brand, I aint selling ya anything. 

nd 

My Next Duty Station.

 Our school district has not yet settled our contracts for the 2023-2025 school years. That means we've been teaching on an expired contract. Negotiations have not been going well. Teachers have been attending school board meetings in hoards. I have not. Some teacher leaders have been asked to provide impact statements and speak at said meetings. A couple of weeks ago I was asked....I wrote this but then politely declined the offer to present. I am one of a few that are not members of the Teachers Union. Here is my Two Cents.

As a United States Marine, I know all about commitment; devotion to duty; loyalty; attention to detail and fidelity. I am proud of my service. Those years shaped the man I am today.

After a quick run through college, I took my next Duty Station at Jacobson Elementary School teaching 6^th grade. The year was 2001. In my second week of teaching public school those planes flew into those buildings. As horrific of a tragedy as it was, the days, weeks and months that followed showed a promise of a brighter tomorrow. Nationalism oozed from every corner of society. People joined hands with strangers. Collectively we supported our nations heroes – the firefighters, police officers, first responders and military members that selflessly stood in harms way so that our great country could send a message to the world that faith, hope, and love conquers all. Out of tragedy came a renewed sense of pride, togetherness, and energy that we hoped would never fade.

It did.

In March 2020, COVID-19 thrust the World into crisis. I was still stationed at Jacobson Elementary, then as now, teaching 4^th grade. Fear of a generational pandemic threw the entire population into reactionary mode. Worldwide shutdowns, social distancing, and the immunization debate caused panic and alarm. Policy makers and politicians coined the term “frontline workers” and defined what was necessary versus what was not mission essential. Health care workers, food processing and grocery employees and believe it or not, teachers were deemed necessary for the survival of our culture. We navigated uncharted territory with a survivalist’s can-do attitude.

In that moment, people of our great nation hunkered down and fought back against a disease and a fear of the unknown while the World as we knew it changed in an instant. In the face of danger, nurses and doctors worked tirelessly as their Hippocratic Oath tested their personal and professional obligations. Through supply shortages and disruptions to the food chain, society learned ways to adapt for the greater good. Public Education was no different from anyone else as we learned how to fly the plane after it was already in the air. Our commitment to children and families never wavered in those trying times.

In the weeks and months post-COVID, there was a renewed optimism as humanity showed appreciation to frontline workers that they deservedly earned. Words of affirmation and social media posts expressed gratitude and support for people whose vocation led them to a life of impact. The public showed a newfound respect for just how difficult it is to be an educator, a job that their children’s teachers have been devoted to in sickness and in health - through the good times and the bad. It truly felt that teachers would finally get the recognition and support that we’ve been owed for some time. Out of crisis came a renewed sense of pride, togetherness, and energy that we hoped would never fade.

It has.

Where has the admiration, praise, and support for education gone? Federal, state and even local campaigns have been run under the guise of Support for Public Education. Unprecedented amounts of funding have been earmarked for education, yet here we stand, bickering over unsettled contracts and as the kids would say, “throwing shade” at each other. To pretend that this doesn’t have an impact on students is unfair. Teachers everywhere are at their wits end. We’re fighting for fair pay and pension reform all the while being held hostage by a career and a conscience that always puts kids first. Shame on me for thinking that things were getting better. My career is not a donation.

Who Dis?

 There was a time in the early to mid stages of this here Blog that we were a part of a little cult of creative writers. We gobbled up each others' essays like Food for the Soul and waited faithfully for each new entry. We "paid" each other with poignant feedback in the comment section. It was a Happy Time on the internet, before the Social Media frenzy took a stranglehold of the universe. 

 Ms. Jennine was the Sarah Connors-esque, HALO Queen that wielded a mighty pen like an upgrade to her weapons system. She wrote about family life and sports and sporadic ongoings in the World with a self deprecating style that I could relate to. 

And there was Chubbs too, my Canadian brother from a different mother. His affinity for the beautiful game of Stick and Puck combined with his love of Las Vegas makes me suspect that we may have been separated at birth. He wrote about family life and sports and sporadic ongoings in the World with a self deprecating style that I could relate to. 

While some collections lay dormant like Mauna Kea on the Big Island, others clung to life support while occasionally kicking out a story of only the milestone moments. And sadly, some Blogs faded into the historical interwebs like the careless dinosaurs that proceeded them. 

Somehow we lost touch with our digital friends.

Somehow life happens. Things never stay the same. Obligations pull us in different directions. Responsibilities sometimes suffocate adults from the things that bring them joy. Commitments change, often without consent of the governed. Personal priorities evolve while the big rock that we're stuck on just keeps spinning the days, months and years away. 

At times I laid awake at night wondering if they were laying awake at night wondering about what I was going to write next. Because I did. I wondered when I would get to read their stuff again, if ever. 

*********

The Blog Rate herein balances precariously under one per month. Some days I swear that I'll recommit to the keyboard because it oddly still recharges my batteries after all these years. More so than TikTok anyway. 

Just over a week ago an old friend clicked by here and once again, left a digital footprint in the comment section. It has probably been eight or so years since I've heard from my favorite French Canadien, with whom I've never actually shared a handshake or a Kokanee. 

CHUBBS - good to "see" you, my brother! I hope all is well north of the international border. Welcome again and know that I do occasionally click around on the "Family Man Musings" and wonder if there is some "Top Shelf Talk" that I'm missing somewhere. I am thankful for our digital connection from days gone by and sincerely hope that your family is healthy and happy. If you're still writing somewhere and sharing on the Interwebs - hook me up. Maybe someday we can have that handshake and a Kokanee - although I prefer bourbon.

HALO Queen - if ever you swing by this here Blog, Michele and I would love to catch up over a frilly coffee somewhere. I'm buying! You know where we live - same old house...the kitchen isn't yellow anymore though!

Road House.

Emma works at the Roadhouse but thankfully it’s the Texas kind filled with warm dinner rolls, fancy line dancing and juicy, fresh cut steaks. Back in college, I too worked at a Roadhouse, but it wasn’t actually called the Roadhouse. It was formally known as Bottoms Up – later to be called O’Brian’s but I always imagined it as my “Roadhouse”.

Like the 1989 Swayze classic, my college bar was sometimes a bit sleazy and attracted some of the most notorious local ruffians. Most of the security staff was made up of young men from the Bemidji State football team – brought in to keep the peace while DJ Butch thumped the dance music and Brent, and his bartending buddies kept the stiff drinks coming. A month into my freshman year, I joined the ranks as a bouncer. What I lacked in size, I made up for in observational skills, reckless abandon, disregard for my own well being in times of chaos and a penchant for violence. Thanks to my time in the Marine Corps and being good at "trouble", I thrived in the rough and rowdy moments in between Puff Daddy songs and the endless flow of Captain Morgan.

Bouncing wasn’t lucrative but it was fun. Unfortunately, some of the nastiness leaked off the locals and became intermixed within some of the staff. Casual alcohol use while “on duty” gave way to recreational drug use amongst a host of other poor choices. About that time, the business went up for sale while at the same time I was ready to step down to pursue more scholarly accolades. Shortly thereafter, Brian Jacobson bought the place and immediately tried to clean up the seedy image by replacing most of the previous staff. Few were able to maintain their positions whether as wait staff, bartenders, or security. A few months in, O’Brian’s was still known as the place to go to finish off a night or carousing with some dancing and hopefully a fight. Brian needed to bring in a Cooler to handle the troublemakers. Patrick Swayze wasn’t available. So, I took the gig.

Brian let me set my own hours. Paid me a respectable wage. I served drinks. Checked ID’s at the door. Danced and did whatever I could to keep the morale of the customers high and the attention on the riff raff low. I offered stability and a safe place to enjoy a cocktail. Those were fun times at the Double Duece.

Now I’m much older…most of my wild days are behind me. I just want to sweep up some popcorn and run the Zamboni machine for a couple extra bucks every now and then so that we can have a nice Christmas or afford to go out for a fancy dinner occasionally.

All was calm…until last night at the rink – I slipped right back into character. Like Swayze’s Dalton, I was asked to take out the trash.

“Somebody gets in your face, I want you to be nice. Ask him to walk but be nice, until its time to not be nice.”  - James Dalton – Road House. 1989

During the last game of the night, a spectator became aggravated to the point that his command of the French Language and aggravated ways towards the on-ice officials earned him a ticket for an early exit. I was not impressed with his vulgarities in the proximity of children and politely asked him to leave. When he shrugged me off with an expletive of my own and disregarded my directive, I closed the distance and politely reminded him that I would be taking him to the door myself if he didn’t start walking. At that moment, another gentlemen came from the top level of the bleachers throwing his opinion on things in his own R-rated tyrant. I quickly assessed that his anger wasn’t focused on me but rather challenging my new friend to a fracas in the parking lot. With an audience of Hockey Moms and small children, these two knuckleheads exited the main arena under their own power.

When they reached the concession stand, their animosity towards each other and what ever issues they were arguing about couldn’t wait one second more, they grabbed each other in clutches of clothing and started the back and forth jostling and positioning that is a fight between two grown men. I was one step behind them as were two other parents from a neighboring town, but we were unable to deescalate these two Rams butting heads and a 3 second fight erupted. Unfortunately, these meat heads spilled into a concession stand booth where two little innocent girls were coloring and while tables flipped and more profanity flew, I grabbed the girls and tossed them over the benches and sent them scurrying for the concessions counter in fear. I hollered for a bystander to call 911 before there was any more collateral damage.

Our two gladiators quickly realized that they may have overstepped some acceptable public norms and one headed towards the door with me in tow while the other retreated to lick his wounds. Once one assailant was outside in the gently falling snow, I returned to retrieve my other new friend and give him reprieve of his evening plans and sent him out the door as well. I can be seen on security footage calmly barking out commands and pointing directions like a conductor at some beautiful symphony of chaos. I got the names of the ruffians and scribbled them quickly in a notepad. Outside the front door, the two decided that fisticuffs was no longer necessary to defend the honor of a PeeWee C hockey game wrapping up inside the rink and when I let them know that the Pine County Sheriffs Department was inbound, both decided to high tail it for the hills.

A couple hours later when the officers’ investigations were done, reports were written and phone calls made – our two heroes will be served with Disorderly Conduct courtesy of a youth hockey game and some bad choices.

My heart rate has returned to normal and I’m back at work the next morning shoveling the sidewalk and sharpening skates again…

Just can’t get away from being the “Cooler” – like a night at the Double Deuce.

You’re Welcome.

The sun hasn’t officially set on the 2023 rifle season across the state of Minnesota. Down here in Zone 2, Logan and I tucked our heavy irons away on Sunday night. However, those north of highway 70 have one more weekend left to hit the woods. And although the dust is starting to settle, I’m not sure Tyler has come down from his high perch on that east ridge of Beltrami County Highway Department land. His mind is still there it seems. In a recent text string, he threw out a few pictures of family bucks of days gone by and wondered if we’d ever know who’s was bigger. Bragging rights aside, he admitted that daily he still looks at the pictures of his biggest buck to date.

                                                                   So, how did we get here?

*************************************************************************************

Text messages loaded with trail camera pictures regularly interrupted the fall high school football season. While Logan was tackling Broncos from International Falls, Aaron was trimming trees and tending to stands on the Bemidji plot. Poppa Tom committed to the team early this year and I’m most certain that Tyler now looks forward to deer season almost as much as he looks forward to teeing one up at the break of each new Spring. During the early Fall, Logan and I tied ourselves in and tried our best with a stick and a string but archery deer continue to elude us. With that, we all eagerly awaited the call to the Northwoods. Not everyone has to fill out packing lists and days off requests. Tom is retired. Aaron lives there and Logan is but a child. So, per usual, Tyler and I filed the requisite paperwork. We later learned that packing lists are overrated anyway.

On Friday, Tyler lit off early from the concrete jungle for Pine City and a quick afternoon visit with Mom. At about the same time, Grandpa Tom pointed his all-terrain Ford Mustang south from Warroad so that he could make the swamp road by dusk. All the while, Logan and I slogged through one last day of schoolwork, both eager for the dismissal bell and the Orange Migration.

Our ride to Bemidji was uneventful but enjoyable. Logan drove from Pine City to Deer River without incident while Tyler and I solved the world’s problems. We covered: salaries and wages of the working man, politics and inflation, war and gas prices but mostly just talked about Sports. With his youth, high school, and college career in the rearview mirror, it’s fun now to talk with Tyler as an adult with a fresh perspective on teams and talent, parents and problems and what it means to be a teammate willing to go to battle for each other in the back alleys. After our pit stop, I took over behind the wheel.

Just after sundown, we reached the welcomed warm glow of Arica’s kitchen. After we unpacked supplies into the garage and personals into the fish house, we devoured a pile of pulled pork and salivated over a few more trail camera pictures. Things looked promising as we all agreed to post in our usual spots come morning. After another quick run through and gear staging in the garage, each member of the hunting party retreated to their respective sleeping quarters but not before pecking through one last round of Snapchat, Insta and Facebook posts in the dark. `

I routinely set my alarm for the predetermined time but cannot remember the last morning of opening day that I’ve needed it. In the darkness I repeatedly cracked open my eyes and checked the time in anticipation of the starting bell while the boys snoozed away at the opposite end of the fish house. When I could take it no longer, I climbed down from my bunk, flipped on the lights and like Grandpa Joe used to always say, I announced, “Daylight in the Swamp”. I grabbed my toothbrush and hurried off to be the first to use the facilities. Our morning muster was scheduled for 6:30 am in the garage. Some slugged down coffee while others stowed last minute jerky and Halloween chocolates. Aaron reported that the ignition on the trusty old red, white and blue Honda had frozen through the night leaving us down a wheeler and forcing us to call it something else from now on. Once again, Logan, Aaron and I would be 3 cowboys on one horse. Tom and Tyler usually stick around for 10-15 minutes after the first wave departs. This walk out would be no different. With sunrise fast approaching, we headed for the hills.

Roughed Grouse stood sentry watch on both ends of the woods. Tom and Tyler were greeted by a covey of birds announcing to the darkened world that strangers were approaching. To the south, a lone fool bird stood stubbornly in the middle of the 4-wheeler trail blocking our way in. Illuminated by the headlights, Aaron challenged Logan to jump off and grab him as the grouse declared to the other critters of the forest that the Orange Army was inbound. In the cover of darkness, the boys of Kamp Kirby 2023 exchanged well wishes accompanied by handshakes and fist bumps as each went our separate ways.

Shortly thereafter, I found myself high up in the familiar red oak of our southernmost outpost. Doing my best to keep my heart rate and body temperature down, I buckled in for some morning prayers. Maybe twenty minutes later, a single shot far off in the distance signaled the start of shooting hours and the speculation that follows. Periodically the new morning light was punctuated with sporadic gunfire. None seemed close enough to spur local excitement. That is… until it was so sudden and so loud that it was obvious.

At 8:12 am, the Outfitter squeezed off a round and then just as quickly fired off a text to me wondering if I had been startled by the shot. Hearing him crack one off so close left no doubt in my mind that our hunting party was in the game. A picture came through confirming that tracking the buck would not be necessary. Tipped over in the dusting of snow a stone’s throw from Aaron’s stand lay a typical 8-point buck. A flurry of text messages followed updating the rest of team. Logan celebrated with that first cold sip of Mountain Dew and a picture confirmed. I followed suit and a picture confirmed. Tyler joined in and sent his own picture of a celebratory sip. I think a new tradition was born. Somewhere in there, Grandpa Tom was brought up to speed. We all breathed a collective sigh of relief and prepared to hunt out the rest of the morning.

At one point, Aaron climbed down to tend to the required task ahead of him but just as quickly scrambled back into his stand after he looked up to see me through the trees, aloft and clinging to another hour of the morning hunt. We later learned that our two stands are only separated by 131 yards as the crow flies. It’s no wonder that I nearly jumped out of my bibs when he shot that morning. Aaron also held off on cleaning his buck because Logan offered to help. Later when Logan slipped through the woods towards the kill site, I easily picked him out between the hardwoods and decided that I would call it a morning and head over for pictures and supervision. It’s always good having a high school linebacker around to help drag a carcass from the rolling hills to the trail along the gravel pit. I retrieved the Honda. We hoisted the deer into the tree at the homestead within the hour.

Back at the house, we skun out the buck and then sliced up some summer sausage for lunch. Aaron and I drove up the road a bit to investigate the data collection stations that the DNR spread throughout the county. Spinal columns were to be disposed of in strategically placed dumpsters along with heads and horns for the next few days. We were on a fact-finding mission in hopes that transporting deer would be a problem for us in the days ahead.

That evening the youngest of the Kirby boys decided he would join our war party. His dad conceded that Naysen would not last the 3 plus hours that the rest of us prepared for. Because Naysen and Aaron would be walking out much later and posting together in the stump blind high along the edge of the bean field, the opportunity to shake things up with the remaining stands was there. Tyler jumped at the chance to leave his usual box stand and head southeast into county land with his brother and me. Logan, Grandpa, and I stayed committed to our usual haunts. Once we changed the settings on Aaron’s safety harness from large to husky to accommodate Tyler, we instructed him on the finer points of locking into a portable stand of which he’d never tried before. The evening hunt was on.

When Aaron’s sky-scraping stand was visible on the east ridge, I pointed Tyler in the direction and left him to figure out a few things on his own. It took him a couple of trips up and down the climbing sticks to square away his gear in the tiny perch above and to water the grass below. The sun never actually made an official appearance on Opening Day. The overcast clouds made for hazy cover all day, but once we were all settled in, the moderate temperatures allowed us a comfortable sit.

Midday reports were quiet. There wasn’t much activity aside from the squirrels and carrion birds. When a fawn moved in on Tyler and a doe happened by Logan, it sent signals that things were changing. In the last hour of daylight, Logan witnessed the rut in full effect. A spike buck and his goofy little buddy gave chase to a poor doe that stopped in Logan’s shooting lane, panting in exhaustion. It was hard for him to keep track of the trio of deer scurrying through the underbrush. At times the only thing visible was the constant movement of their legs in the cat and mouse game that is the fall mating ritual. When a much larger deer showed at the top of the hour, the Bear reported that he had seen a shooter buck but had no shot.

Logan lobbed a snort wheeze at the big dude to no avail. He wandered off in search of love. Time sped by but lucky for us, the second act was about to begin. For the next 15 minutes, the intensity picked up as both boys had does within range and the rustle of the suitors in the distance. Throwing care to the wind, deer were on the move and chasing each other near and far. The news put all three of us on high alert. 30 minutes of daylight remained. I reminded my boys that there was plenty of time left.

The large deer appeared again but avoided Logan and ambled off to the south with his nose to the ground. Fortunately, his path meandered up the south ridge and downhill east to west towards Tyler. Facing backwards in the stand with his right knee on the seat, Tyler wrestled with the safety tether that kept him secured to the treetop. He clenched his great grandfather’s 30-.06 rifle in his hands as he searched through the scope for an opening in the forest. Too busy to count points on the buck, Tyler immediately knew that this was one worth taking. He struggled while mounting and dismounting the rifle, looking for a safe and humane shot. Tyler tried stopping the buck with the challenge and password but in the heat of the moment, the right words and phrases escaped him. The buck continued down the ridge. At about 50 yards there was the slightest path for a bullet to travel and as he had trained on video games his entire life, without any more hesitation, he fired.

From the same stand, a second buck had taken his last step. Tracking this one would not be necessary either.  

A pulse of adrenaline shot through me. I could sense the same happening in my boys for a moment as texts messages fired off in rapid succession. Immobilized by Tyler’s shot from a steep angle, the deer required a follow up one to put him down. Daylight was starting to peter out, and Logan was inbound. For the second time in less than 10 hours, I climbed down and hurried over to provide support and supervision. From a covering spot above, Tyler directed me past the leaning aspen tree and slightly down hill to where I found his paralyzed buck. I quickly dispatched the beautiful whitetail with an ethical finishing shot and the celebration was on. Tyler had taken the biggest buck of his life.

In the fading light, I snapped a few quick pictures while we waited for Logan to arrive. Grandpa Tom, Aaron and Naysen sent their congratulations and patiently waited for our return to the house. When Logan finally waltzed up - he leaned his rifle against a nearby tree - grabbed the buck by the horns; turned to his brother and said, “Yep. That’s him. You’re welcome.”

And so, the story will go… - Little brother passed up an iffy shot at a November 10 pointer knowing that the deer was headed in the general direction of his big brother. And although these two knuckleheads sat side by side for the past two seasons to double team some deer, this year they did not. What they did do was make for another memorable hunt for the record books. Logan plays it as though he gifted Tyler the brute. Tyler laughs it off as brotherly banter. Official harvest reports give rightful credit to Tyler who made a great shot through the heavy hardwoods on a moving deer. More pictures and stories followed. After the biology lesson and gutting the deer was completed, the three of us made small talk while we washed up in the waning bits of leftover snow. Suddenly there was movement beyond in the darkness.

Logan’s powerful headlamp scanned the perimeter as both boys wondered out loud if we had become the hunted and were being approached by wolves or coyotes. None of us thought to rearm ourselves but instead shined as many lights into the woods as we had available. All at once we spotted our visitor. A large skunk was making a beeline for our little friendly gathering in the woods. Without hesitation, Logan turned and burned. He declared that he wasn’t about to stick around to mess with no skunk…like Ricochet Rabbit, Logan was gone in a flash.

I hollered into the shadows and demanded that Logan return and fight this thing off with us like a man. He reluctantly returned and shone his moonbeam in the vicinity of the approaching timebomb. I yelled to get its attention and when the skunk picked up his head and realized that he was uninvited, he turned tail and disappeared into the night.

Tyler would later surmise that perhaps his younger brother wasn’t the kind of teammate willing to go to battle in the back alleys like we thought he was. He certainly showed his true colors when he abandoned us for safety as the threatening skunk approached. The jolt of excitement was enough to break up our powwow and refocus us back to the task at hand. I loaded up as many packs and rifles as I could carry and wandered off into the darkness in search of the wheeler. Tyler and Logan grabbed antlers and got to dragging. We met up a short time later and apparently, I got a little close for comfort and nearly ran Tyler over with the recovery vehicle. Luckily, I did not, and we all returned safely back to the ranch for more handshakes, hugs, and high fives. At dinner we all got to retell our sides of the story over some second-place chili and a couple celebratory drinks.

For the remaining days, not another shot was fired. We had does check in on us from time to time along with a fox and a porcupine. The grouse continued to patrol the woods and tempt us as well. This was another stellar season with the Outfitter taking a great 8 and Tyler upping his game and joining the 10-point club.  Now a few weeks removed, the venison has been processed and there are reports that trophy mounts are nearing completion, but the truth is we were never after any of that. It was the in between times that make family deer camp so great. The teamwork to drag or skin and quarter a buck. The conversation and optimism of each early morning reveille as well as the laughter that fills the garage when we regroup in the evening. Passing out snacks and sharing cleanup chores… it all matters.

                            They give their strength so that we may have ours.

The distinguished hockey timeline of a roundballer from the Chicago suburbs.

 Despite popular folklore and what the myths may have long forgotten, not everyone "from" Warroad was born with skates on. The Legends of Paul Bunyan have grown over time as did the stories of his superhuman feats of woodsmanship. So too did the Legends of Paul Kirby and his hockey prowess grow. I am not here to debunk what popular culture has come to accept as truth. I do want to provide a timeline of sorts of how I got to this pinnacle in my On Ice "career".

* I was actually born on the banks of the beautiful Fox River in the "City of Lights" - Aurora, Illinois. I always wondered if my great grandfather was named after the river or if the river was named for him. Either way, I'm not sure that I ever witnessed the Fox River freeze but I vividly remember daydreaming of the stories my own father told of skating the river from Oswego to Aurora in the middle of winter. My mother shared stories of ice skating at Phillips Park. In my youth, I did neither.  

*In 1978 our family moved to a little hamlet on the 49th parallel. Rested comfortably where the Warroad River emptied into Lake of the Woods is the Ojibwe town that shares its name with the river. Upon arrival along the border of Minnesota and Manitoba, the Kirby family was not issued ice skates but at the age of 3, my history of dual citizenship began .

*In 1980 some kids won a hockey game or two against the oddsmakers in a place called Lake Placid, New York. Their improbable run to a historic Olympic Gold Medal was made possible with a number of Minnesotans on the roster. Dave Christian was one of those boys on the "Miracle Team". He wasn't the first person in his own family to win an Olympic ice hockey medal. Years before, his dad and uncles did too. All were from Warroad.

*Coincidentally, my hockey "career" began in 1980 in Warroad, Minnesota as well. I entered kindergarten and although no official records are available - I must have at least passed the ice skating portion of physical education class. It was a right of passage and a way of life for all school age children in Warroad to skate their instructional laps under the high wooden arches of the Memorial Arena. Generations before us learned on the river. Generations that followed learned in the Gardens. If there's one thing Warroad is good at, it's making ice. (And subsequently all the other things that come along with that.)

*Again the records are lost in translation somewhere but I do distinctly recall an early lesson in hockey stops that unsuccessfully ended in a bloody nose and no apparent damage to the boards of the Memorial Arena. The vision is foggy but then again, I was 5. I do remember a teacher tightening up my skates and sending me back out for another go. 

*My youth hockey career was cut short before it ever started by a Bombardier and my father's fledgling ice fishing business. To think, if I stuck with hockey and he stuck in the ice fishing industry we could both be millionaires. Instead, that year my parents divorced. My younger sister stayed in the land of the ice and snow and I retreated with my mother to the banks of the Fox River.  

*As luck would have it, changing family dynamics necessitated a return to Warroad in 1982. Maybe my youth hockey ship had sailed. Maybe my dad was doing his best to keep me out of the fish house stove. Either way, I did not play organized hockey that year but I'm most certain that I was a stellar 2nd grade  student and in Warroad that meant more ice skating in gym class. Without the ability to stop, I hope I was at least fast. 

*As the school years ticked on, I spent only the summers splashing in Lake of the Woods and the school year with my Mom in the Land of Lincoln. In 1984 the Chicago Bulls drafted a kid named Michael Jordan. It changed the trajectory of many adolescents across the Midwest. My Christian Brothers hockey stick built along Highway 11 on the north border gave way to an orange ball and zero vertical.

*My flight dreams were grounded in watching Air Jordan and imitating him in our suburban Chicago driveway. Once the snow and ice made pick up basketball games obsolete, I ran the hardwoods of the intramural and interscholastic teams known as the Oswego Panthers. Luckily for me, the Goblet boys owned a hockey net and I somehow convinced both John and Joe to grab a baseball glove, strap couch pillows onto their legs and jump out of the way while I fired tennis balls and street hockey pucks at them with in their basement with that hockey stick I snuck out of the north woods. 

*In the summers of '84-'88 my hockey tutelage involved following Greg Biskup anywhere he'd let me tag along. I'd pick up pucks for him. Hell, I'd wash his Jeep if he'd just let me hang out near him. See Greg played college hockey for the Bemidji State University Beavers and had a cute girlfriend. To a middle school kid like me I thought there must be a correlation between the two. (Editor's note - 35 years later Greg would be inducted into the BSU Athletic Hall of Fame on the same weekend that my cute girlfriend was!)

*Entering my Junior year of high school I made the decision to live year round with my dad. My mother was not happy but the Warroad Basketball coaches were. From a small fish in a big pond to the opposite, this city boy thrived on the attention that was tossed on us by the Warroad basketball fans - all three of them. Turns out there is infinitely more open ice time than there is open gym time in Warroad and that is typically where you would find me. I loved open hockey at the Olympic Arena. I loved shooting pucks with Ryan James at the Roosevelt Horse Barn. I loved shoveling off and then skating the Warroad River behind my house. 

*The Warroad Lakers was a Senior Men's hockey team that played in the Canadian Amateur Hockey Association. Their star player was my weight lifting coach. Their pesky defensemen was a fella I played alongside in the summer men's league softball games. The Lakers recruited washed up high school stars as well as burn out college boys. The Lakers rostered beer swillers, hellions and rebel rousers from both sides of the border. Somehow this menagerie of toothless grins mustered some pretty entertaining hockey. Lucky for a kid like me that lived a stones throw away from the arena, I got to attend many games. A quick trot across the railroad bridge and I was privy to some of the finer points of the game. 

*Next door lived a fella that some called "the greatest high school goalie of all time." Having a buddy like Aaron Stodgell at my disposal proved to be an important step in the development of my game. Stodge patiently taught me how to shoot a puck. Stodge played shinny without judgement as he consistently made me and the McKenzie boys look like chump change. The McKenzie boys were the two eldest brothers of a large family from the neighborhood. Even though they too were closet basketballers, they perfectly rounded out our back ally games of puck. 

*I don't remember watching much TV in high school but I do remember Saturday Night Live, Married with Children and Don Cherry's Hockey Night in Canada. That should account for something. 

*I chewed tobacco beneath the bleachers between periods of those high school games that I was able to attend. When the action returned to the ice, I was as rapid of a fan as I could possibly be pledging my allegiance to the Black and Gold of the Warroad Warriors. Truth be told, I am a 3 sport Warroad Alumni that DID NOT play high school hockey. I wish that I did but I stuck to the football pitch, the basketball courts and the baseball diamond. My shootout dangles were perfected in those late night skates at Open Hockey with my buddies. 

*In October 1993 I earned the title - Marine. A short time later while at the School of Infantry I met a fella named Kurt Lambert from Saginaw, Michigan. As I walked through our Quonset hut, I noticed that he was laying out hockey cards on his top bunk. I stopped and struck up a conversation. Turns out he too was a hockey aficionado. On weekend liberty, we rode the bus together to the mall to splurge our newfound fortunes on Red Wing and Penguins gear. My starter jacket solidified my intentions to one day trade my USMC high and tight for a Jagr-like mullet.

*Lambert was a goalie. Like all goalies - a little off kilter. Regardless, when we hit the ice rink in the center of the La Jolla mall we moved like Youngblood but in rental skates. At the time, two midwestern hockey schmucks stood out amongst the southern California wannabes. It felt weird to skate with palm trees out the window. When we went to Disneyland - he wore a Red Wings jersey. I went with the San Jose Sharks. We thought we were cool. We were not. 

*I left the Marine Corps of SoCal and retuned to the Land of Ice and Snow - not Illinois. That should account for something. 

*At Bemidji State University I quickly adjusted from military life to college life. I lived with a couple of goons from Grafton, North Dakota. Brent and Shane were high school hockey teammates but it was in North Dakota. So there's that. Another fella, Travis, was from Thunder Bay, Ontario. He was a defenseman for the Beavers and gave me hand-me-down sticks because like me, he was a lefty. Unlike me, he spoke Canadian. My old high school buddy, Ryan James, rounded out this hockey loving crew. Oh wait - Mike lived there too. He was a frat boy and played broomball. It was 1997. We sometimes rollerbladed to class. We thought we were cool. We were not.

*As my friendship blossomed with another weird goalie, I was suckered into working for campus recreation beside him. I refereed broomball and hockey games. I joined a Co-ed puck team myself and went to Play It Again sports to buy some gear. I spent many nights at the rink in the John Glas fieldhouse. I have Brent Rud to thank for that. 

*In March 1998 - after securing the competitive League Intramural Championship at BSU, the team sponsored by the 71 BAR picked up yours truly on waivers for the trip to St. Cloud and the Extra-mural State Tournament. (Seriously, it's a thing. Look it up.) I was a token addition to the squad because I was the commissioner not because of my goal scoring prowess. We drank too much and got third.

*For the '98-'99 intramural season back at BSU, the stakes were high. A new dance hall opened in town and was looking for some good public relations. O'Brian's bought some green and white team jerseys. We amassed a team of junior league all stars, the greatest goalie in high school league history, some former Beavers with no remaining D2 eligibility,  a couple of football players and me. We took the local title at the John Glas and traveled to St. Cloud in March to win a State Title and outscore our opponents there 78-3, or something like that. The average age of our opponents was 19. Ours was closer to 30. We drank too much and won it all.

*'99-'00 - Wash, Rinse, Repeat - the O'Brian's team was back to back BSU Champs and back to back State Extramural Champs. On the season, I scored 8 points on 3 goals and 5 assists, although one of the goals was an empty netter. I joke. No one knows who scored what but I did learn how to skate backwards that season. 

*At the turn of the century I was asked a monumental question. Because of my position in the Rec Department and my proximity to the people in charge of ice time and calendars, I was asked to coach the Bemidji State Women's Club Hockey Team. I later learned that I would be co-coaching with Matt Dillon, the bouncer/bartender not the actor. He was brought on for his schemes and command of the X's and O's. I was brought on for light comedy and motivational speeches. I think one of the ladies heard I was from Warroad and figured I must know something about hockey. Fooled them.

*I was a USA Hockey registered coach for the first time that year. I also was named Senior Winter Sports Supervisor of the recreation department. I didn't get a fancy new name plate outside any office but I did get the code to the copy machine. It also meant that I was now spending 4-5 nights a week for months on end on and around the ice sheet. I refed extra games. I was rostered and played on a Rec and a Comp team. I played with anyone that would take an extra skater. I did my homework from the scorer's table. I ate many meals just behind the glass. When knuckleheads let their ego's loose I reeled them back in with swift and decisive action and would be waiting for MaryLou at her office first thing in the morning to be "called on the carpet". You want to get better at anything - do it everyday. I skated often. 

*'00-'01 Intramural Comp. Season = Wash, Rinse, Repeat - O'Brian's goes back to back to back ad nauseum - securing our place as an Intramural Dynasty. I expect my HOF call any day now. Although we weren't dating yet, Michele was at the rink in St. Cloud to watch her first ever hockey game. She watched 3 more. It was at that point that I knew I would one day marry her. (Now, 21 years later, there may be a trophy or a t-shirt stashed in the basement somewhere. Michele finally made me put them away after 15+ years of looking at them.) 

*The Women's Club team won a few games themselves. We beat Hamline at the State Fair grounds coliseum. Our 9 skaters vs their 18. Our mismatched socks and helmets vs their polished look. Our two Irish coaches vs their full staff. We played in Duluth and Grand Forks. We hosted a few games at home too but what I remember most was the fun we had at practices. I'm glad they called me Kirby Coach. 

*In 2001, I took my first teaching job in a sleepy little farm town I'd never heard of called Rush City. Besides my time in the Marine Corps, it would be the first town that I lived in since 1990 that didn't have an ice rink. Turns out not all towns in Minnesota have hockey rinks. I didn't know that. 

*I found Men's League Open Hockey 11 miles north at Korbel Arena in Pine City. It was more like babysitting foul mouthed adolescent boys that stayed out for 6 minute shifts and less like the spirited hockey I was accustomed too. In addition, it cost money to play. Two things that I wasn't familiar with. I don't think I played more than 2 seasons. I forgot about hockey for a while.

*Michele and I married and shortly moved to Pine City. The availability of a rink was at least part of the conversation. Our young family started to blossom. Tyler wore the obligatory MN WILD gear from time to time but he was destined to be a Ball'er. In 2004, Sista Emma joined Tyler. Emma became my next best option so we put a hockey stick in her hands before she could walk. 2 years later, Logan completed our family. He actually left the hospital a day after he was born with a gifted hockey puck from a friend. A new trajectory as a Hockey Dad had begun.

*As a toddler, Logan cheered on his favorite player for the Chicago Blackhawks, Dustin Byfuglien. Big Buff raised the Cup that year and Logan had a new hero. Sista Emma cheered for Derek Boogaard of the WILD and kept a framed picture of the Boogeyman in her bedroom to scare away bad guys. In a great case of foreshadowing, my children showed an early natural affinity for the big loveable defensemen that were ultimate teammates. 

*Yep, in 2010 we signed up both Emma and Logan for Pine City Youth Hockey. Michele talks about that day like it was yesterday. When the guys up front asked for potential coaches, Michele practically pushed me out of my seat. I guess I signed up at the altar of USA Hockey that day too. The train was in motion. 

*Soon thereafter, I earned my Level 1 Coaching certification and began a long term relationship with online modules. I bought in to the American Development Model and began drinking the KoolAid. Mite jamborees, calendar sales, cool new apparel with scary stick wielding dragons on them, volunteer shifts and traveling hockey - the Kirby Krew was all in from Day #1.

*I progressed through the USA Hockey Coaching ranks while my kids proceeded to stack up the requisite skills and personal memories that make youth hockey so great. With new found friends, our emersion into the local hockey culture was like scenes from a postcard. Late night skates at the outdoor rink, SUV's packed to the gills so the kids could skate the river on family holidays, endless living room knee hockey, pink knit hats and concession stand popcorn for days. 

*I spent many practices and games with the kids and families of PCYH. We shared meals while on the road. Together we raised money to support local causes. We drank our fair share of hotel room cocktails and became friends that even sought out each other's company in the summer months. When Emma played boys hockey in Squirts and Bantams, I followed. Not because I needed to protect my daughter but more so to protect the boys from my daughter. I was fortunate to spend a lot of time on the bench with Logan and his teammates as well. 

*Always a glutton for punishment, I served three separate but concurrent sentences as a Board Member. My official title was Coach in Chief - I learned that didn't translate to much.

*After a long time coming, on January 15th, 2021 the first ever Pine City Area Dragons Girls Hockey team took to the ice for a historic 8-1 WIN over Prairie Centre. Sista Emma was a junior Defenseman on the team. As a Captain she took the inaugural faceoff and even scored a goal in a game that we thought might never happen. I was lucky to be an assistant bench boss with my good buddy, Bill Aagaard, calling the shots. 

*Emma was named a Captain again as a senior and actually awarded the Conference Defensive Player of the Year. I coached the Lady Dragons high school team again that season but stepped down following our playoff loss to finally be a fan in the stands. I was excited to sit beside Michele and cheer Logan on in his sophomore season, a season in which he was recognized as the Rookie of the Year as well as the Defenseman of the year. 11 years later, I'd say my kids fit the same mold as their childhood enforcer heroes. They play a disciplined, hard nosed, team game and are ultimate teammates. I'm proud to be their Dad more than their Coach. 

*I thought a year off would be just what the doctor ordered. Turns out my agent thought otherwise. When Marco asked if I would "give back to the Association",  Michele farmed me off to coach the Mite B's. A couple of nights a week, I laced them up and remembered just how much fun hockey can be though the eyes of the youngest skaters. At years end I was ready to hang them up for one last time.

*Turns out my agent thought otherwise. With the encouragement of my loving Wife, I have been kicked out of the house a few nights a week and my Storied Hockey Career has taken a MAJOR LEAP... No, I'm not going to THE SHOW. I've taken a part time job. And for the first time in over 40 years of hockey I will finally be paid for going to the rink! I have reached the Pinnacle of my On Ice Career!

Say "Hello" to the newest ZAMBONI driver at Korbel Arena!

HOF Plus One

If you’ve ever turned on the TV on a Saturday afternoon, surely, you’ve caught a little of the madness that is college football crowds. Young men and women in various stages of sobriety, hollering and mindlessly rooting for their mascot and college of choice. Ravenous fans are traditionally adorned with face paint, beads and necklaces and a complete assortment of accessories all based on the war color patterns of their institutions. The Blue and Gold of the Michigan Wolverines– The Maroon and Gold of Goldy’s Gophers – heck, the unmistakable Tar Heel blue even has its own name, Carolina Blue. I envision giant foam fingers and striped overalls. I picture each superfan losing their mind to defend the honor of the home team.

This is what I’ve tried talking Michele into. She threatens to not invite me.

On Saturday October 14^th, 2023, Bemidji State University will enshrine six new individuals into the BSU Athletic Hall of Fame. Michele is one of those six. These six inductees will join the other 202 members “that have excelled in their field and brought acclaim to the University.” Do the math. Over the entire course of all athletics at the college in Bemidji, after next weekend, there will be 208 people recognized as Hall of Famers… and my wife is one of them! In 1921 Bemidji State sent a basketball team to the hardwoods to compete and since that time there have field hockey players, swimmers and divers, baseball and softball, soccer players, volleyball players, both men’s and women’s basketball and hockey players, thousands of Track & Field athletes, national championships, and conference champs – the list is seemingly endless….and yet only 208 Hall of Famers up to this point.

There’s a weekend full of activities planned to recognize the inductees. We’ll have luncheons with alumni. We’ll rub elbows with benefactors. The class of 2023 will be saluted at the Beaver Hockey game on Friday night. Saturday is the official induction ceremony, and our delegation will end the weekend watching the volleyball team take on the St. Cloud State Huskies in what is being dubbed, “the Hall of Fame game.” Truthfully, Michele doesn’t want this much attention. I know she’s proud of her accomplishments. She worked hard to be good at her craft and it’s nice to be recognized for your efforts. She’d much rather this be a team award. Michele knows that every one of her personal stats mean nothing without the contribution of some fantastic teammates and super coaches along the way. She’s been an athlete her entire life. She knows the Company Line – defer and deflect attention and praise to your teammates. Thank your coaches for putting in you in a position to succeed.

Through it all, Michele rates a Plus One. I thought 20 years of marriage would make me a shoe in. I think my over excitement and the thought of me in Beaver Green body paint with a giant M painted on my chest has Michele afraid to have me along. Even though I think I might look decent in a pair of those striped bib overalls, I know this weekend is not about me, I swear. It’s about celebrating my wife and I’m good at that! I want to scream her praises from the mountain tops. I’m so stinking proud of her but I know I’ve got to be somewhat muted and help ease her introverted ways.

She’s threatened to make Logan her plus one. He’s the observant, quiet and humble one – like his Momma. She’s offered to make it a girls’ weekend and only bring Emma to the festivities. Two tall leggy blondes – a perfect reflection of one another. Maybe she should make Tyler her plus one. After all, he was there with her after her freshman year and spent his fair share of days at the gym when Mom was setting the stage and running the show. All humor aside, to the games and banquets we rate two tickets to each event. The others we’ll begrudgingly pay for because having the kids along for this special event is a no brainer.

But…

Given the chance.

I know Michele misses her Dad. Poppa Ray was her biggest fan. Living off of pennies and love, he made it to as many games as humanly possible and cheered as loud as humanly possible. One year, Ray Dinius was recognized by the Bemidji Volleyball team as their official Super Fan. Truth is, he was always Michele’s Super Fan. And when he got grandkids, he took it to another level. At all of Tyler’s basketball games, at little Emma’s brief gymnastics career and into her blooming high school days, and at Logan’s tball games and even a hockey game now and then – Poppa Ray was happiest when he was cheering for his family. Michele thinks I eat popcorn like Grandpa Ray. I hope I love and root for my kids they way Grandpa Ray did for his.

He's her Plus One and although he left us a few years ago, I can only imagine how proud he is of his Hall of Fame daughter. I wish he was here to take bad pictures with his upside down camera and I know that Michele has been thinking about him often since she was given the news that she’s a – Hall of Famer. Poppa Ray and I always knew, #5…we always knew.

I love you.