Eulogy 101...

 When Poppa Ray passed away it was a tough task to write his obituary. We were reeling from our loss and trying to encapsulate a life well lived into just a few paragraphs proved to be a daunting task. But we did it and looking back, it was an important step in the grieving process. At his memorial, my wife prompted me to stand and tell a heartwarming story about Poppa Ray and our old dog, Gunner.

I did and it helped.

On September 12th, my Marine Corps buddy assumed his post at the Pearly Gates of Heaven. He was gone too soon but ready to stand watch on the rest of us Unitl Valhalla. Although I was in both of his weddings back in the day, I didn't make it to his funeral a week later as I chose to be present for the crowning of a Queen....a Queen that lives under the same roof as I do....I think my friend Steve would understand. 

Two short weeks later, as I was preparing to eulogize, Bob and Nancy, the parents of another one of my best buds another friend from my inner-circle passed away. Mick Skalsky, my mentor and friend, succumbed to his year and a half battle with pancreatic cancer on September 29th. As I was readying a speech to memorialize two influencial adults in my life, I lost another person directly responsible for making me the man I am today.

Having not really been asked to speak during a formal funeral - I was honored but still huritng from my own emotional rollercoaster. The following are two eulogies that I presented in the span of 6 days.

I hope it helped the families of some wonderful people that I really am thankful to have had in my life.

It helped me.

Mick Skalsky

There is a young lady that teaches across the hall from me that’s just starting her second year as a Teacher.

I remember meeting her for the first-time last year in August. The thing I remember from that initial introduction is her smile. It’s just swallows her whole face – this big beautiful, smile is so contagious and welcoming and eager to please. Over the next few weeks, we got to know each other as she integrated into our 4^th grade team and we stared down a school year unlike any other. Faced with ideas like Distance Learning and Hybrid Schedules… she and I were more on equal ground than either of us really knew. Her, in her first year and me, in my twentieth.

At one point our conversation turned to MENTORSHIP. Ya see, Krista was assigned a Mentor by the administration. Administrators that use acronyms like Q-Comp and PLC – acronyms that the elders warned us about as they approached retirement... Krista’s assigned mentor was a bit of a go-getter herself….kind of a Teacher’s Pet – one of those gals that volunteered for everything.  ... As a first-year teacher, Krista wondered why one staff member was assigned to her over another. It seemed odd to her that the guy across the hall, me, that had been teaching for 20 years, wasn’t her assigned mentor.

I vividly remember our conversation last fall. I told her, “Krista mentorship isn’t an assignment. Mentorship isn’t checking a box or a stipend for talking about the topic of the month.

Being a Mentor is something you DO.”

Being a mentor to someone means being available when things are going well and when things aren’t. In the teaching world, that might mean providing a great worksheet or a helpful tip on a Math Lesson. It might mean stepping in so that your hallmate can take 5 and use the bathroom. Being a Mentor means helping young teachers navigate the world of education…helping with things that aren’t taught at the university.

Being a real Mentor goes beyond discussing work all day though. Being a Mentor requires trust and understanding that is developed over time. Friends and Mentors talk about Life…Life’s biggest and brightest moments and sometimes the bad times too.

Mentorship is something you DO. – Mick Skalsky was my unassigned mentor.

I learned a lot from Skalsky right off the bat. In July of 2001 I got a call from Mr. Koepp for an interview in a town called Rush City. Although I knew I had applied for the position, I didn’t even know where Rush was. Without Google Maps or Siri to guide me, Mr. Koepp led me in and a couple of months later after I had sworn my oath to Direct Instruction, I had my first teaching job. I was part of a 6^th grade team with Mike Skalsky and Chris Inman – lucky for me, Sue Williams was off having babies. Anyway, we all got along fine and regularly I would let on that I only planned to be here for a couple of years…3 tops. I wanted to work my way back North towards Bemidji or maybe even back home to Lake of the Woods. And every time I brought up my escape plan, there’d be Mick telling me to “give our little town a chance”. Telling me to be careful and warning me that he had that same plan a hundred years ago. Him and Gwen hit Rush City in 1970 and if you ask Mike, he only planned to be here for a couple of years…3 tops. Maybe work his way back North….to the Big Lake and Silver Bay. “Careful,” he’d say, “you might end up Mayor of this place!”

Well, I’m not built for a career in politics but here I am 21 years later, raising my family here and still thinking about “back home”. Skalsky did the same thing. Raised his family here. All 4 kids. A whole mess of grandkids…Rush City is home base for his crew….but I know Mick loved it back home. Maybe one of my biggest regrets is that I never weaseled my way in to be included on a grouse hunt up near Silver Bay. Mick loved the Shack and I’ve heard more stories about the Old Railroad Grade – that was home to Mick.

1970 – can you imagine it? What a great time to be young and free in Rush City. Mike and Gwen Skalsky came to Rush City to start a life together about the same time as Laakso and Kosloski, the Bungerts, the Trips, the Louzeks  and the Peshia’s, Beuhring and Meissner, and the Driessigs…a veritable who’s who of the cool kids in education. The 1970’s….wow, what an exciting time! I heard many stories about these folks getting together, hanging out until all hours of the night - probably swapping lesson plans ….I just wish that I could have been a part of all that but I guess I was too busy being born.

My Mentor taught me to have a sense of humor about things.

Mentorship is something you DO.

For young people in Rush City there are a few things that serve as Rights of Passage. Things that bind them all to small town life forever. Kids play Summer Rec and earn that blue t-shirt and ball cap that screams, I’m from Rush City. Kids go to the pool and measure small town time by passing the swim test for the first time and earning that orange wristband. Rights of passage for so many… and having Mr. Skalsky for a teacher became synonymous with growing up as a kid in Rush City. “My teacher is the Mayor!” The STONE FROG cursive writing assignment, Skalsky’s Rockets and the 6^th grade Ski Trip to Wild Mountain (Where Skalsky lit himself on fire one time trying to hide a cigarette from the kids) …Mr. Skalsky taught me to challenge my students. To have fun with my students and to love my students and work hard for them and they’ll work hard for you.

Mentorship is something you DO.

Real easy to be a 9 year old’s favorite teacher….give them a sucker for answering a question correct in math and they’re going to color you a picture…hang that picture up and they’re your new BFF…. Real easy to be the cool guy when you’re doing rockets or rolling out the VCR…I’m just saying that it’s not hard to impress 11-year-olds either…but you know what is good measurement of a Career in Education??? When grown adults constantly refer to you as one of their favorite all time teachers. Mr. Skalsky was a guy that touched so many lives, not just taught them about fractions and great introductory paragraphs…but a guy that got the best out of you, held you accountable and some how made you feel appreciated and loved at school so that you became the very best version of you possible….that’s Skalsky. Grown adults tell me all the time that he was their favorite teacher in grade school…

So kind. And gentle. And funny. And smart.

Mentorship is something you DO.

Mick Skalsky taught me so much more than what it means to be a teacher. When I was a young husband, Skalsky listened when Michele and I had our differences. He taught me about loving and appreciating our wives as extensions of ourselves. He taught me about understanding their great contributions to running the household and Skalsky taught me that sometimes it’s best to just shut up and listen to your wife. “Do what your wife tells you.”, he’d say.

When I was a young father, Mike Skalsky taught me about being a dad – a dad that takes time for each of his children. To love them fiercely and to include them in everything that you can. Skalsky taught me to put in the hard work early with your own kids, to lay the groundwork when they’re young so that they become great reflections of your family and its values.

Mike Skalsky was a MENTOR to me in every sense of the word…..

I am so grateful for him and for his family. I am honored to be here today, on a day that is difficult for so many of us….

Let me leave you with one more quick one….I got the message from Gwen that Mick was gone early last Wednesday. As you can imagine, I fell apart and thankfully, our principal excused me from school right away that morning. After composing myself, I felt drawn to Mick and Gwen’s house. I honestly didn’t know that I’d find the family gathered there but they so warmly welcomed me in… Gwen met me in the kitchen with a hug and tears and then walked me into the front room where I was able to say Goodbye to Skalsky. I kneeled at his bedside and prayed over him. I thanked the Lord for this wonderful man and having put him in my life. I cried like a baby.

And then I stood and put my arms around Gwen and said, “He was my best friend…..which is weird because you guys are like a hundred years older than me.”

She punched me and we hugged some more.

Mentorship is something you DO.

Nancy & Bob Dillon - "tough and faithful"

I used to think I was the toughest guy in Letterkenny?

I am a United States Marine – spent two Christmases in the Persian Gulf, saw combat in Somalia. That is just the beginning of my Tough Guy resume. Ya see, after the Marine Corps I went to Bemidji State University – some call it the Harvard of the North…and there I met a fella they called “Dillon” – like Cher, Madonna, and even Prince, I immediately knew this guy was cool because he only had one name. Like me – Kirby.

Dillon and I became running mates and eventually both ended up working at the local college watering hole….where from time to time, we were known to get in a fracas here and there. I was a Bouncer. So was Dillon. Neither of us physically imposing like the Football playing Giants that we worked with but both equal parts crazy enough to jump in to any fight with fists of fury. In the house of God, I don’t want to elaborate too much on the exploits of a couple of ruffians but if you ever have the time, ask Dillon about what happened to the guy that so rudely interrupted our Valentine’s Day Dinner Date.

Stick with me here…. We’re here to celebrate Bob and Nancy. I know.

Used to think I was tough. I used to think that I knew what playing through the pain meant. I thought I understood the definition of being tough. Nope.

Ma, Nancy was tough. Tougher than me.

Nancy was classy lady in every sense of the definition. Well read and intelligent, Dignified, and elegant. Classy but TOUGH. Nancy fought back when Parkinson’s tried to slow her down. She fought to hold her head up high and to be there for Carly’s next Dance recital or softball game.

Sophisticated and fashionable, a classy woman refrains from using vulgar language…I know, I read that on the internet. Nancy fought off Pneumonia and every other ailment, so that she could be there for Owen’s next Hockey or Football Game. I can’t speak for sure about the language she used at the rink but I know she loved both of her grandkids fiercely. She fought to be a part of every moment possible.

Nancy fought like mad to keep the wolves away – determined to be there on that Lake Minnetonka cruise. A beautiful August luncheon where I saw many of you there wishing Bob and Nancy a wonderful and happy anniversary. Graceful and stylish as always, my biggest joy that day was walking arm in arm down the gangplank with her and watching her bask in the glow of being surrounded by those she loved and those who loved her.

I used to think I was tough and then Matthew would call and say, “Ma’s not doing good, Kirb” MATTHEW – huh, it was weird to hear his parents call him Matthew….Nancy wasn’t doing good but then that Christmas Card would come in the mail and Nancy would brag up Cassie and Tracy. She would write about the accomplishments and milestones of her grandchildren. Nancy would proudly tell  of Bob’s recognition by the Lion’s Club and she would dote on about the nurses at the University or the women of her beloved Church Choir – choir’s whose names I I’d struggle to pronounce.

Fighting on through her own pain, too proud to let on about her fight….this Classy Lady, Nancy, taught this Marine about being Tough.

An international pandemic put its ugly grips on Ma Nancy and sadly we might cling to these fighting memories of her in her toughest hours. I choose to remember those annual St. Patrick’s Day meals where she fawned over my three children as if they were her own grandchildren. Where she gladly made a place at the table for my wife and me. I think of spilled drinks and wonderful family stories. Corned beef and cabbage and bourbon and M&M’s. I think of Nancy’s celebrated list of academic accomplishments but how this incredibly intelligent woman remained so humble and true. I fondly remember my first trip to the Dillon household where Bob and Nancy instantly welcomed me into their home and into their family. A home that Bob and Nancy welcomed so many of you into. I cling to the memories of weddings and hockey games, Nancy always dressed to the nines…so full of peace and happiness. Softball games with sunshine and pride and love coming from Nancy – one of the TOUGHEST ladies I’ve ever known.

AND THEN THERE WAS BOB….

Bob Dillon.

How would you describe Bob?

I’d say he was like a sitcom Dad – a combination somewhere between the patriarchs of “Leave it to Beaver” and “Married with Children”. This traveling salesman knew a little bit about everything but not enough about anything to be dangerous.

I may have mentioned earlier that I’m a Marine. I’m also an elementary teacher – have been for 21 years now and I brought treats. I’ve got a sucker here for anyone that can tell me the Marine Corps Motto. Here’s a hint – it’s Latin.

Yep – Semper Fidelis. It’s Latin for Always Faithful….

I used to think I knew what that meant. Always Faithful.

And then I watched Bob.

A Vietnam veteran that served in the late 60’s and early 70’s, Bob was a Sailor. Maybe not a Military Buff or historian but I sure enjoyed listening to him weave a tale about the good old days in service to his country. Squids and Jarheads are required by law to give each other a hard time and Bob certainly held up his end of the bargain.

Bob loved telling stories about ‘Nam and the Navy. Loved telling fishing tales or stories about life on the road. But his whole demeanor changed when his stories focused on his kids and grandkids. I can see it now, his smile beaming with pride as he told and retold the same embarrassing childhood stories of Cassie and Matthew. Always Faithful…Bob lead his family from the front. And when grandkids entered the picture, he was the perfect corny old grandad that every kid deserves. Faithful to them as always.

The Lions Club presented the Melvin Jones Fellowship Award to Bob … their highest award given – for what? For Community Service….for thinking of others, putting other’s need before his own. Always Faithful.

And did you see him on that Minnetonka Anniversary Dinner Cruise? Did you ever catch him more than an arm’s length away from his beautiful bride? Nope – Bob loved Nancy for more than 45 years and I saw it just pouring out of him on the boat that day. You know with a trapped audience like that, Bob was just itching to mingle amongst his people and try out some of his latest, long, drawn-out, terrible jokes…itching to visit and talk to people because that’s usually what Bob did best. But not that day. As I remember them – they were inseparable. Husband and Wife. Mother and Father. Grandma and Grandpa. Surrounded and celebrated by those of us lucky to know them. And Bob – Always Faithful.

Just this week a very dear friend of mine passed and although it has been very difficult for me to understand, I am comforted in knowing my friend had a relationship with God. The same is true about Bob and Nancy. Mr. & Mrs. Dillon were believers and I’m comforted in knowing that they are both on high – looking down on us gathered here today. Nancy – classy, sophisticated, and TOUGH as nails….and corny but lovable Bob, Always Faithful.

 

 

 

El Sapo Diablo - Steve Morris - USMC

 After earning the title, United States Marine, in October and completing the School of Infantry shortly thereafter, I "dropped" to the Fleet Marine Force of India Company 3rd Battalion 1st Marine Division. It was January 1994. Once a Marine Always a Marine is not just a fun play on words. Some 27 years later, I know it to be true. Becoming a Marine and subsequently a Marine Raider is something that I did in the most formative of years and has steered me in the right direction of life. Those 4 years I bitched and moaned as much as the next guy but now realize that my decision to walk the walk and talk the talk would have implications long into my adult life.

A mediocre introductory paragraph maybe...wordy at best - point is, I sometimes talk about it too much but damn, I'm proud to be a Marine.  

On Sunday, September 12th an otherwise perfect weekend for me took a drastic turn for the worse when my Ol' Marine buddy, Mike "Smiley" Fossey called in hysterics. It was about 6:00 pm. My son, Logan, and I were grabbing the window screens down from the garage to tend to some evening chores. I answered the phone and could only decipher that "Steve is gone!". Mike was balling. I asked as many questions as fast as I possibly could. Mike had very few answers. There had been an accident - potential suicide - no real or factual word but either way you cut it, Steve Morris had passed. 

I crossed paths with hundreds of our country's finest during my time in service. I'm grateful for these men and the shared experiences we had, both good and bad. Gutierrez and Poe, Vanderau and Ruiz, Miles and Winterborne, Riddle and Fuqua, Engdahl and Junior, Kapenas and Meathead, Scooter and Skeeter, Chickenhawk and Moe... I can name them ALL but by the time I did, you'd stop reading. You'll have to trust me - I served with some of the best.

And among the best are Mike Fossey and Steve Morris... these are my guys. Oh sure, I got buddies from Coast to Coast, and I even have some photographic evidence of our worldly exploits to support some of the cloudier memories. But if you ask me about the what’s, where’s, who’s, and how’s on my time working for Uncle Sam, 90% of what I'm going to tell you is going to involve Steve and/or Mike. We did it all together. 

Ours was a true definition of a Marine Corps Fire Team. Morris was our Automatic Rifleman. A husky fella charged with toting around the M249 Squad Automatic Weapon. He was built to be a SAW Gunner. - thick, stubborn, loosely disciplined and a little bit crazy. Fossey was his A Gunner, an honorable "assistant" in every sense of the word. Mike carried the burden of extra ammo for everyone and a spare barrel as well. Mike is a helper by nature and set the table for the team to succeed. And then there was me - the guy that got too much credit as a team leader. Maybe a couple of bones thrown my way from time to time - a desirable position on a Raid or the opportunity to carry a shotgun into Mogadishu. I was tasked with holding our crazy, midwestern, country-boy, fireteam together for 3 years.

If you know anything about fireteams and squads and platoons and companies you might be thinking that a fireteam consists of four Marines. You're right. Our fireteam hosted visitors at the Rifleman position all the time. Dunn, Russell, Gralmann, VanDonsel...heck we went through Riflemen so often I think they gave up on us because we were better with just 3.

Me - Mike and Steve.

It wasn't suicide. Someone posted to Facebook that Steve was free of his demons and that lit off like a wildfire of speculation. It wasn't suicide. We will all be free of our demons someday. Steve was killed as a pedestrian crossing the road - from what I've been told, he was on his way to go fishing.

Sunday night when I took that call from Mike, I slobbered and bellowed in complete shock. I scared my son, but he smartly ran and got mom. Michele comforted me as I knelt in my driveway, numb to the fact that one of my closet friends was gone. When Smiley and I stopped crying in each other's ears and said our goodbyes, my wife suggested we go for a walk. We grabbed our dog, Raider, and off we went. I cried and walked; walked and cried. I was having trouble breathing. Every step brought up another memory... Australia, Kuwait, San Diego, Yosemite, Kalamazoo and Vegas... everything I could remember ever doing in the Marine Corps went through Morris. When you share a fighting hole, or a bunk or a weekend 96 in the woods with someone, you develop a different bond. When you can name their brothers and sister, know their most intimate stories, goals and aspirations....when you commit to one another as brothers and truly learn what the Marine Corps Motto "Semper Fidelis" means on an ethereal level...then you know.

Steve was one of my guys. 

I remember when we first met. A bunch of Boots hit the hard charging 2nd Platoon of India Company at about the same time. A pissing contest of sorts plays out as young Marines search for their place amongst the pack. Peer groups slowly develop as PFCs and Lance Colonels gravitate towards those with similar interests. Morris and I were feeling each other out as potential running mates and began to question each other's Redneck credentials. It may not have been our first encounter, but I vividly remember he and I both reaching in to our wallets at one point and pulling out Archery Hunting Licenses from our home states of Minnesota and Michigan - proof from then on out that we were speaking the same language. Our friendship was built on solid midwestern values, an appreciation for the outdoors, an eclectic taste in rock and roll music sprinkled with some Cypress Hill, and trust in God, Country and Corps. Mike Fossey completed our trifecta. 

"When I get to Heaven, St. Peter he will say....

How'd you earn your money Boy? How'd you earn your pay?"

Gone too soon. Taken too early. The cliches are gonna fly when people realize that Steve was only 47 years old at the time of the accident. A father to adopted daughter, Daphka. A son to a loving mother. A brother to siblings that looked up to him. Friend to many. My comfort comes in knowing that Morris had a personal relationship with God. He was a believer and for that I am confident that he is proudly standing his post at the pearly gates of Heaven - taking his turn on watch and waiting on us Until Valhalla. He had a nickname he liked to be called. Actually referred to himself as "el Sapo Diablo". The Devil Frog. 

Marines earned the moniker "Teufel Hunden" in 1918 at the Battle of Belleau Wood of WWI.  Ten fought like a hundred. A hundred Marines sounded like a thousand. Marines have been called Devil Dogs ever since - except Steve. He like Devil Frog. On ship, the Devil Frog and I attended church and bible studies together often. In the middle of the Indian Ocean very few Marines gave up their down time to study the word of God. Most played video games, watched movies or slept. Weekly, Steve and I would head over to the ship's library and sit amongst a bunch of Squids and sing our hearts out. While at sea, the Devil Frog and I would sometimes go topside to the smoking deck and look out to the endless stary nights  ....sometimes questioning our own mortality but often times talking about hunting or fishing but usually girls. Admittedly he strayed from God's word. We're all sinners. We all fall short from time to time and Steve was no different. Those that question his demons later in life can be confident that Steve had prayed prayers of forgiveness. I heard them. God did too.

I've got stories about Steve coming out of my ears. I don't want to bore you with everyone nor do I think you would have the stamina to read though it all. But I would like to tell you about the time Steve thought he killed me... India Company was conducting a live fire Raid on one of the many ranges of Camp Pendelton. At Zero Dark Thirty, we launched our zodiacs from the belly of ships parked a few miles offshore. Sugar cookie Marines hit the beaches under the cover of darkness. 2nd Platoon wove its ways up the sandy cliffs and through the gullies of San Onofre Beach. Eventually we reached the point of engaging our enemy - comprised mostly of paper targets and stacks of rubber tires. Weapons Platoon circled to higher ground to provide a wall of lead in fire support. The rest of us grunts moved tactically through the live fire obstacle course, firing at will and scaring the crap out of the rubber tire enemy. Live rounds were flying through the air as Marines moved skillfully down range. 

I'm UP.

He Sees Me!

I'm Down. 

Covering each other's movement with suppressing fire, my fireteam moved as rehearsed. Each Marine providing cover for his buddies as we individually rushed into the practice hellfire. Trees and low-level scrub brush dotted the washouts and rocky terrain. Smoke and fog filled the darkened night. The sky was lit periodically by flashbangs, tracers, and illumination rounds. When it was my turn to charge, I sprung to my feet and scampered ahead. El Sapo Diablo let his Squad Automatic Weapon bark. The fictitious enemy ducked as they didn't stand a chance. I ran; jumped and ran some more until I hit an entanglement of concertina wire at full speed. I went down in a cloud of dust just as Morris sprayed suppressive fire over my head. The scene must have been traumatic for Steve. He was sure that he just killed his best friend and Fire Team Leader.

Steve couldn't see me, just over the next rise... thrashing and rolling around in a tangled spiral of wire and ripped cammies. As far as he knew, he shot. I got too close and now I was gone.

But I wasn't. I was in caught in my own battle to stop looking like an idiot trapped in a man-sized, very sharp, Slinky. For Steve time stood still. He rose to his feet and walked through the roaring of a Platoon of on-rushing Marines. He sulked ahead - certain to see the carnage of friendly fire. I'm sure he didn't remember this whole scenario as I do....the look on his face, lit by the strobe lights of tracers and the moon will be with me forever....Steve didn't shoot me. But he thought he did. I was just a clumsy, hard charging young Marine and yelled at my Big Bellied friend to "snap out of it and help me get out of this damn wire!"

I looked out for that dude and he did the same for me. We swam in many of the Seven Seas together. We drank beers and sang songs at many pubs in foreign lands. We fished together in California and later after the Marine Corps, on my home waters of Lake of the Woods. I was in Steve's wedding...both of them. He was a great guy. He was one of My Guys..

And now he's gone.

In the days that followed, Fossey and I were in contact regularly. Marines called and messaged me from Coast to Coast. I heard from India Company Marines from California and New Jersey, Pennsylvania and North Carolina and a Marine from just down the road here in Minnesota... guys that heard the news of Steve's passing. Guys that knew Morris and I were tight and were checking in on me. You know what every one of them said to me at the end of our conversation?....every single one of them....said, 

"I'm here if you need anything, brother. I love you!"

 

Semper Fidelis, El Sapo Diablo. I love you, brother.

It's Vegas, baby!

 In May 2016, Michele and I took our first trip to Las Vegas together. For a few days we meandered up and down the Fremont Street "experience" bouncing through levels of sobriety. Hand in hand, we took in the sights and sounds of a place much different from little old Pine City and worlds different from the village of Kivalina from which I had recently returned. Every few hundred feet, competing casinos popped up a stage and offered up a menagerie of both regular and exotic performers in an attempt to entice paying customers to stop into their establishment. Buskers sang, danced, spray painted and banged on buckets for your attention and change. General vagabonds in all stages of undress filled in the relatively few empty spaces in between. Needless to say, we saw a few things that trip that made us blush. Together we concluded that this was no place for a family vacation. 

Fast forward 5 years.....

Now we have teenagers - Junior High and High School - Driver's License - some new found freedoms - oh yeah, include an International Pandemic....

And what do you know? Let's take our babies to Vegas! 

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Here in this Blog there are a few entries that cataloged our bi-annual adventures to a couple of not-so local waterparks. The Tiki Tina in Duluth quickly became a family favorite and helped mark the passage of time. Fall and Spring trips were filled with water logged toddlers and take-out pizza. Afraid that we have outgrown the lazy river and the dumping of the giant tiki bucket, our Trip Planner decided that airfare and hotel costs to "Sin City" met our budget constraints. Mom threw out the idea and I bit. She took care of the rest. Parking. Plane tickets. Hotel Reservations. I highly recommend Mom's Travel Agency - she's got it all covered. An Easter Trip out West was in the making.

There were a couple of sanfus along the way. We tried a new parking garage and were swept directly to Sun Country Airlines without a hitch, happy to find the terminal less than busy and TSA checkpoints moving along swiftly. Our plan was to have a meal at the terminal. That was a bad plan. COVID restrictions have reduced the Humphrey Terminal to a shell of its formal self and our food options were reduced to a stingy vending machine that was taking money faster than the Vegas slots. Airline travel during this pandemic kept us masked up and and hopeful for a few winks of shut eye rather than anticipating any inflight meals, snacks or even a cold Coke. Nada. 

On final approach to McCarran Internation Airport, we were a bit famished but excited to see from the air, the hustle and bustle and glowing neon lights of the Vegas Strip. Our cabbie avoided the construction tangle of  Las Vegas Boulevard like the paid profession he is and earned a nice tip, delivering us to the Mirage with a smile. Again, Mom's Travel Agency came through by handling a seamless check-in process and in an instant we had gone from wrestling the vending machines in Minneapolis to contemplating our next meal two time zones away. Nearing midnight local time, we dropped our bags and headed off into the masses in search of much anticiapted family meal. Logan wasn't the only one that was H-Angry.

The pandemic has left it's mark all over the world. Vegas would be no different. Although there were plenty of masked tourists up and down the Strip, it became apparent that the casino doors were open but many restaurants were closed. Restricted hours and or full time shut downs had limited our choices for an evening meal as our family doubled back in search of something to fill our stomachs. Chipolte - NO. Denny's - SORRY. Not an eatery open in sight. The Kirby Krew wandered aimlessly about as local time now crept well past midnight. Finally we hit the Promenade - an old favorite sidestreet of mine and Michele's. Surely there would be a taco stand somewhere - NOPE. A bar burger? - NADA.... not even a lousy convenience store open to snag a bag of chips. And then we saw it..... a line pouring from In-N-Out Burger. Our need to feed was answered with this desert oasis and west coast staple of cheap burgers and handcut fries. Although our family trip to Sin City was off to a rough start, things would only get better from there! With food in our bellys, the weary travelers went to bed.

Our room accomadations were adequate. Our view of Trump Tower and the far off mountain ranges gave us reason to peek out the window every once in a while. The warm weather and the pool is what we were really after and Vegas delivered. Sunscreen and sunglasses. Lounge chairs and frosted drinks - both of the adult and kiddie versions. Swimsuits, sandals and sundresses. A good book followed by a better nap. This is really what we came for - time to sit and be together as a family. Sure, the sights and sounds of giant water fountains giving backdrop to crowded sidewalks and sidewalk hustlers were enough to keep things interesting. 

On Las Vegas Boulevard, Logan didn't refuse but politefully declined having his picture taken with the scantily clad locals even though his sister begged and even offered to pay for the Kodak Moment. Our boy got his first wiff of the Electric Lettuce this trip as well. Seems Nevada Law tolerates the use of marijuanna and at times it seemed just as many folks were "toking" advantage of that as were carrying around those giant sized tourist glasses filled and re-filled with intoxicating concoctions. When Logan saw the advertised asking prize for these frilly drinks, he began a game with Michele and kept a running tally of each person we passed sipping to their hearts content and pumping dollar bills back in to the US economy. Logan was mesmerized by the sheer numbers. 

It seemed at first that Michele and Emma too had their own little game. I swear there was a concerted attempt to visit every Starbucks in Nevada. If so, those two were well on their way to achieving their goals. The thought of $5 dollar hippie tea and late night, frothy, coffee is lost on me but it kept my two lovely, leggy blondes happy and that makes me happy. On the Strip, tucked away at a mall....it didn't matter, if it said Starbucks, Michele and Emma were staying hydrated.

Poolside, we manipulated the mask mandate in our favor by learning how to play the game of "actively eating or drinking". We even learned that a completely empty container used as a decoy was enough to keep the COVID police off our case. Every once in a while, we took a dip in the cool waters of the Mirage Pool, reapplied sunscreen and went back to work - not really doing anything.  Logan retired back to the hotel room periodically, more so when he just needed a break from people and needed time to veg out and play on his phone. Michele and I gambled a couple of times. Never intent on tossing money down the drain but interested enough to have some time together playing the Willy Wonka slots. Vegas did to us what Vegas does....it made us forget about routines and timelines. We ate when we were hungry; went to bed when we were tired. 

One night we enjoyed a family meal of deep dish Chicago Style pizza - another time we grabbed a seat at a sports bar in the Mirage. We people watched up and down the Strip. Took in the sites of the Bellagio and the high end shops at Ceasar's Palace. We got treats at Buddy's Bakery and wandered through the Venetian. Logan and Emma enjoyed seeing things they had only ever whitnessed before in the classic movies like "Hangover" and "Paul Blart: Mall Cop". Admittedly, at times our adventure was loud and flamboyant. It is Vegas! But more often than not, things were more PG-13 than "hide your kids" R-rated. As worried as I had been about a family trip to the "Sin City", things went off without a hitch... well....except for that one time....

Let me paint one more quick picture for you... by Vegas standards, it's early evening. At least the Sun has set. So it must have been more like 10 or 11:00 p.m. Logan has long since run out of gas and tucked in to finish his evening with ESPN Sportscenter and TikTok. Michele and I were not quite yet ready to wind down for the night so we gambled a few bucks here and there. I mean, we had gone through the effort of cleaning up and putting on some nice clothes...so, we dedcided to carry into the night. Somewhere in between offensively watered down Captain Morgan and Cokes, Michele got a text from our dear sweet daughter asking if she could join us. We agreed and in short order, our baby girl joined us for a quick jaunt on the railway tram to Treasure Island.... if you're still with me on this wandering essay, you know what happened next.

Yes, Emma asked for Starbucks.

But that's not where the intrigue lies....it was just another late night frothy, overpriced drink to make my lovely daughter feel appreciated. She earned it. So, onward we went. In vacations past, Treasure Island has coughed up a few winning hands for Michele and I on the slot machines. It feels generally less crowded and we usually end up there once or twice to try our luck. With our underaged daughter in tow, we had to make accomodations in order to gamble. Emma agreed to take a seat nearby and proceeded to scroll through her phone like every teenaged girl in the country would do. Michele and I set up shop on a slot machine a short distance away and began clicking away credits and dollars. 

It wasn't long before Miss Emma was approached by a suitor. Through some scruffy facial hair, the young gentleman appeared to be in his mid to late 20's. In his defense, it must have taken some courage to walk past a beautiful girl two or three times before actually addressing her with your best COVID pick up line. He greeted her with the usual and then quickly asked if she was upset. Apparently he was going to offer comfort and perhaps her facemask covered the fact that Emma was quite the opposite of upset. She was having a great time. Some short lived small talk insued when the courter pressed on. He asked her what brought her in "to town". You know, Vegas being the best place for blossoming long term relationships and all...

Emma replied, "My parents. My Parents brought me to town. I'm here with my parents." At which time she pointed out Michele and I about 25 yards away. Me smiling and waving. My lovely wife looking the part of a beautiful teenage girl herself. The would be Casanova immediately began to back pedal; clasped his hands together, perhaps in prayer...and bade my little Princess goodnight. No harm. No foul. but it sure made for a good laugh. We surmised that Emma was a sitting duck without her trusty baby brother by her side. We advised her that if she wished to avoid such uncomfortable encounters in the near future, she should stick to having Logan at her side.

Until next time, Vegas....

An OT Game winner followed by a Small Act of Kindness

 This hockey team is young. 1 senior. 2 juniors...mostly comprised of 7th-9th graders. We've been overmatched against a varitable who's who of the top 10 Single A teams in the state. Playing through arguably the toughest strength of schedule that you could imagine, our young team has not backed down once and continue with their best attitude and relentless efforts regardless of the score. Our reputation is "pesty" and we like it.

Last night we again matched up against an older more experienced opponent that iced double digit numbers of upperclassmen. The team from Duluth was formed by all of the schools in Duluth not named Hermantown or Marshall....that is a large population to pull from. And our pesty Dragons played on. We gave up a fluke goal early in the first period and it seemed like it might be another long night where the bounces just don't go our way but the momentum changed when our girls ramped up their energy levels and poured their guts out in the second period. Although we didn't light the lamp that period, the ice tilted in our favor as player for player proved to their teammates that each was willing to do the "little things" the coaches were asking of them: Block Shots, Win Races, Control Rebounds, Mark Up, Forecheck Hard, Draw Penalties and just keep fighting. 

Our #17 was leading from the front. She drew two physical penalties that period proving to her team that she was willing to pay the price necessary for the team to compete on a high level. The physicality of the game is taxing and many of her teammates were making regular check-ins with the team trainer. Point blank, the young Dragon squad was relentless and strong. Still down by 1 goal at the second intermission, no one would argue that we weren't in control of the game although the scoreboard didn't reflect it as such. 

We continued to push the pace and play aggressively in the third period and were rewarded for our efforts on a bit of a flukey goal ourselves. Regardless, with the score even at 1-1, the small crowd was on the edge of their seats and pulling for the underdogs that refused to back down. Our first Overtime game ended just as we had hoped - Lena Roubinek potted a backhand goal about three and a half minutes in. Her heroics wouldn't have been possible without outstanding goaltending, solid defense, a heavy forecheck and belief and support pouring from the supporting cast on the bench....this we all know.

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The legendary late nights of being a hockey family have to be embraced when you're in the moment. Friends remind us to enjoy the chaos while you can because one day the kids will be grown and gone. Yet, a 9:30 Bantam practice following a late night Varsity game can sometimes lead us to a pity party and begging for more sleep. Logan's late night on the ice followed right after Emma's team buried their opponents from the north. Emma would be home, showered and in bed and Logan and Dad would still be at the rink.

Riding the high of a triumphant OT winner, I knew that it would be a while before my head hit the pillow. I did worry though about another late night for our 8th grader. Logan and I got home at about 10:45 pm and visited for a few short moments before I ushered him off to the showers. I knew he'd be begging for a few extra moments in bed when the alarm clock rang the next morning.

And in the kitchen was his lunch pail with a sticky note on it left from his Big Sister... Even though she had fought through one of the most physical games she had ever been a part of, she found the strength to do something nice for her little brother. She made his lunch while he was at practice. And that to me is worth as much and maybe even more than an Overtime game winning goal.

Earn this...

 "Saving Private Ryan"  was an epic war film set in Western Europe at the time of the Normany Landings of World War 2.  As if the opening scenes of battle and carnage on the beaches of Normandy aren't enough to glue you to the screen, the story unfolds when we learn that Matt Damon's character was the last surving brother of four, having lost his three siblings who were recently killed in action. An order is given to Captain Miller (Tom Hanks) to retrieve Private Ryan and return him safely to his mother back in the states, as was custom with the number of casualties associated with the last Great War.

Captain Miller assembled a squad to scour the French countryside and soon learns that it is a dangerous undertaking just trying to locate Private Ryan. Along the way, German soldiers inflict casualties to Miller's men that are fighting a different battle than those on the front lines. Their only mission is to find Ryan and return him. This comes at the cost of many lives along the way.

Private Ryan is eventually located attached to 101st Airborne Division defending a bridge in Ramelle, France (the only fictional town in the film). The clutching emotion tied to this film drags you through battle scenes as if you were attached to the unit and patrolling the streets right along with them. The audience is further drawn in as witness to to the storyline of Ryan's lost brothers and Captain Miller's civilian occupation as a high school English teacher. At the climax, Tom Hanks' character is fatally struck down defending the bridge against an oncoming German attach. He is the next in line of a series of men that have directly given their lives to locate and support the safe return of Private Ryan.

An Allied, counter-attack, air raid is called in on their position and as fighter planes scream overhead forcing the German retreat, Captain Miller is face to face with Private Ryan once last time. Private Ryan leans in to hear Captain Miller's final words - "Earn this" The capatin repeats it one more time and then succombs to his injuries. 

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Tonight my daughter will be amongst a group of young women that will take to the ice for the first ever Varsity Girls Hockey game held as a Pine City Dragon. This has been no small undertaking. There have been pioneering women that played co-ed hockey many years ago. There have been Co-ops with other communities that have failed to give our athletes ownership in community pride that they so dearly crave. Parents, volunteers, local business leaders, school administrators - you name it, so much has gone in to making tonight happen.

In our little town there are many proud parents flooding social media with memories of the journey up to this point. My phone is regulalry buzzing with well wishers reaching out in support. I'm lucky enough to be one of the coaches to stand along side these young ladies tonight to represent all of this time, money, effort and love that has made this happen. Coach Aagaard, Coach Clementsen and I will stand beside them as representatives of their friends, neighbors, and grandparents that can't be in the stands to cheer them on. The kleenex will be passed in the stands without regards to COVID as parents witness a dream become a reality.....

And our girls will work the tails off....... to.....    EARN THIS.

#homegrown