10 Yards More

There’s nothing like opening your garage door in the morning after a snowfall and seeing that your neighbors have already shoveled the sidewalks between their property lines and your driveway. It’s a warm, friendly feeling.

Shoveling or blowing that stretch of sidewalk is not compulsory, but between neighbors of honor, it is the fulfillment of a tacit understanding.

Like so many traditions and self-imposed obligations, the unnamed yet mutually accepted, neighbor-to-neighbor responsibility is probably best left unspoken. And between neighbors, it is. Yet I feel compelled to speak of it on this cold, snowy, January day. To acknowledge its existence. To make it real. To give it a name.

I’m talking about the 10-Yards-More Imperative, so named (by me, just now) because somewhere between 15 and 30 feet is the average length of sidewalk between property lines and driveways. It dictates that, if I am the first one out to shovel or blow snow, and if my neighbors haven’t come out to do theirs by the time I am finished, I will remove the snow from our shared property lines to the edges of their driveways.

There is no verbal agreement. There is no penalty for not doing it, other than self loathing. And failure to do so certainly does not qualify as news that’s fit to Tweet.

Many either don’t know about the 10-Yards-More Imperative or they don’t give a scoop; they just don’t do it. (Then again, there are some who don’t even shovel their own walks and driveways, which is a discussion for another cold, snowy day.) But there are many more who do, even if they don’t know what it’s called.

My father did it for our neighbors when I was growing up, and they for him. Now I do it for my neighbors, and they for me. I hope one day my kids will do the same, and be repaid in kind.

Some go beyond the Imperative, like my neighbor who, when I was laid up from surgery last year, blew my snow not once, but three times. When my family was on vacation and Fargo-Moorhead got blasted three or four times, I expected to spend hours clearing a path to the front door. Instead, I came home to a clean driveway and sidewalks. It was a gift, one I’ll never be able to repay.

For those who do not live where the snow falls, where the temperatures stay below zero for days or even weeks, and where the ever-present wind makes it feel 20 to 40 degrees colder still, this probably makes no sense at all. Big deal, I’ll bet they’d say. What difference is 30 feet going to make, anyway?

Listen here, I’d say back. If you have never blown a couple of feet of drifted snow off of a driveway when it’s -1 Fahrenheit with a wind chill of -27, with gusts blowing freezing flakes right back into your mug, you have no basis for judgment.

Perhaps it is a small thing. Yet that extra 10 yards, that reduction of four minutes from the time spent outside on a freezing, miserable morning, makes a huge difference. And without the 10-Yards-More Imperative, the additional time can pile on to what is already prolonged misery over the course of a winter, especially winters that last 5½ months like they do up her in the Dakotas and Minnesota.

Honor. Selflessness. Shoveling. When your respect the 10-Yards-More Imperative, they’re all one and the same.

Yes, it is a warm, friendly feeling when you’re greeted by already-cleared stretches of sidewalk. But it’s an even warmer, friendlier feeling when you know that’s what your neighbors will see when they roll open their garage doors.

Published in The Forum, Fargo, N.D., on Jan. 30, 2014, under the headline, "Just 10 More Yards..."

Front-Page News

Originally published in The Forum, Fargo, N.D., on Nov. 3, 2013, under the headline, "Newspaper should be about news."

Look at it. The front page of your daily newspaper, down at the bottom. Winking at you!

Every morning when I open my copy of the local newspaper, The Forum, I can’t help but think of Jackie O’Shea’s line from “Waking Ned Devine.” Because at the bottom right of page one, Monday-Saturday, there it is just winking at me – a print ad. It’s no winning lotto number, to be sure, but in the end Jackie and I are referring to the same thing: fortune.

Flip back to the front and take a look. What was once essentially forbidden now takes up space previously reserved for news. Page-one ad placements in The Forum now promote everything from cars to calling plans, real estate to skin treatments.

And the reaction from most people is – Yeah. So?

So. There was a time when a newspaper’s front page was completely staked out for – forgive me if this sounds a bit crazy – news. From the beginning of the modern era of newspapers in the early 1900s, the front page has been sacred ground, reserved for serious news only. No ads. Ever. Period.

I remember the scoff from one of my college journalism instructors when a fellow student asked why he never saw an ad on the front page. The answer: it just wasn’t done. The unspoken assertion: it never would be.

Newspeople and editors liked it that way, with no concern for what advertisers thought about stories, no editorial decisions based on how stories might impact a business, freedom from worry about whether a certain piece might cause an advertiser to pull its dollars. And then, one day….

Wink.

With readerships dwindling in the Internet age, newspapers needed to find new ways to raise revenues. In some cases, the solution was to lift the prohibition on page-one ads. It’s not clear when the first appeared on the front of a major U.S. newspaper, but by June 2007 they were common enough for the American Journalism Review to run a piece titled “A Fading Taboo.” The story included points of view between the extremes: the ads are good for newspapers struggling to make ends meet in the Internet age vs.  they are abominations that blur the ethical division between news and paid-for content.

Today you can see a page-one ad on the front of The New York Times, The Wall Street Journal or USA Today. Whether it spans six columns across the bottom or is a box in the corner, a bright splash above the masthead or a sticker blocking part of the day’s top story, there it is, winking at you.

Deep down I’ll always be a journalist who thinks the front page should be uncluttered. For me, it was about keeping what was pure and true separated from sales pitches and spin. As an advertising and PR executive, I get the other side, too. Businesses need to cut through clutter to reach time-starved and attention-challenged consumers, and their fortunes depend on convincing more people to buy in new, engaging ways. And newspapers? They need to make enough money to be able to keep bringing us the news.

Front-page ads are not the entire answer for newspapers engaged in daily struggles for relevance and solvency. They aren’t multi-million-dollar winning lotto numbers for businesses that place them, either. They’re simply part of the fortunes – good or bad, today or for the future – of both.

The reality is keeping a free press going is anything but free. If page-one ads are necessary to maintain in-depth, reliable, solidly reported news, I guess I’ll live with them. Still, I’ll always miss my uncompromised view of the daily news.

Larry's Navy Story

Originally published under the headline "Navy loved Larry-like welcome" in The Forum, Fargo, N.D., on Sept. 4, 2011.

There’s one Fargo Navy Week story that deserves to be told again. It’s Larry’s story, but more than that, it’s about everyone in Fargo-Moorhead who helps make this a friendly, inviting place.

The people of Fargo-Moorhead made a huge impression on the Navy sailors who were in town August 8-14, but no one made more of a lasting impression than Larry Bosma and the table full of veterans at the Fryn’ Pan in Fargo.

Early on August 10, Rear Admiral Mark Guadagnini gave interviews on two downtown radio stations. Afterward, he and the three sailors accompanying him were hungry. Since there was time before their editorial board meeting, they decided to walk from Broadway over to the Fryn’ Pan for breakfast.

The Navy did a great deal of legwork leading up to Fargo Navy Week, but all the public relations in the world can’t compare to the positive impact of sailors walking down the street in their dress whites. People called out to the Navy men, stopped to shake their hands and thank them for their service and gave the thumbs up while driving by.

At the restaurant, Guadagnini, Lt. Commander Frank Ryan, Lt. Chika Onyekanne and Mass Communication Specialist Pat Migliaccio were seated in a booth next to a table full of older fellows who obviously gather there regularly for breakfast and coffee. Many of them greeted the sailors, and Guadagnini went around the table to shake hands and give each man a few moments of his undivided attention. Most of the men had served at one time or another; while none had served in the Navy, several other branches were represented.

After the Navy men had had placed their orders, some of the veterans from the other table drifted over in ones and twos to have a few more words with the rear admiral. One of them was introduced as a 94-year-old veteran of WWII who is still able to get around for coffee with the boys. A couple pulled pictures out of their wallets, images from their time in the service. Guadagnini, in turn, posed with them for new photos.

The men from the adjacent table departed before the sailors finished their breakfasts. When Guadagnini asked for the checks, the waitress informed him that one of veterans had already paid the tab.

The sailors were astonished, and as they walked toward The Forum’s offices they talked about the generosity of people in Fargo-Moorhead. Guadagnini told the story during radio interviews later in the week as an example of the welcome the Navy was receiving here.

Turns out the man who paid the bill was Larry Bosma, owner of Bison Properties in Fargo. When Larry was contacted on behalf of the Navy, he downplayed his act of generosity. "It was nothing," he said. "I figured those guys are out there paying every day, so it was my turn to pay for a little something." But it wasn’t nothing to the men who were in town representing an entire branch of our military.

It was an honor for me to help bring America’s Navy home for Fargo Navy Week. But Larry and others like him reminded me what a privilege it is to live in such a hospitable, welcoming and supportive community.

Thank you to everyone who participated in Fargo Navy Week by hosting an event, attending an event or covering an event. We should all be proud of the colors we showed to our men and women in blue and white.

* Red Note – I had the pleasure of assisting the U.S. Navy’s Office of Community Outreach and its primary communication consultants with event planning and media relations as the in-city planner for Fargo Navy Week, Aug. 8-14, 2011.

A Wicked Winter One-Two

Originally published under the headline, "One more hour is all we ask," in The Forum, Fargo, N.D., on Feb. 6, 2011

Dear God or Universe or Higher Power or whatever controls these things: Can you please add an hour to our Midwestern winter days?

Because, you see, for weeks now Mother Nature and Father Time have been hitting us daily with a wicked one-two, and it doesn’t look like they’re going to let up any time soon. Word is they work for you, and we’re tired of getting the short end of the clock.

Mama’s obvious. Temperatures in the double digits below zero, snow so high we have to dig out our mail boxes to ensure access for the frozen Postal Service delivery person, dogs trying to get away with doing their business on the floor of the garage instead of going out into the frigid air.

We’re used to dealing with her, though. The real trouble begins when she creeps in hand-in-hand with Papa, as she always seems to do. He’s sneaky, that one, quietly slipping in, snatching seconds and slipping away. An extra minute here, a few extra there and our days are shot.

Taking the dogs in and out through the garage because the sliding-glass door to the patio is frozen shut takes an extra three minutes per outing, six outings a day. That’s 18 extra minutes gone before it’s time to crawl back under the comforter at night.

Walking around after dawn opening the heavy-duty blinds and curtains to let the sunshine in and warm the house (Martha Stewart says!), and again to shutter everything in the evening – four to five more minutes out the window.

Opening the garage door and starting the vehicles 10 minutes before it’s time to leave – three minutes one to four times a day – toss three to 15 minutes.

Cramming six feet into boots, six hands into mittens, three hats onto heads and wrapping three scarves around necks to get the kids ready for school, all the while making logical justifications to a 7-year-old regarding the necessity of wearing a hat, mittens and zipping up his coat during frigid weather – seven minutes, minimum.

At least three minutes hounding the offspring when they get home to make sure said hats, mittens and scarves get picked up and stuffed into coat sleeves, that coats are hung and boots are lined up.

Another three to four with the cramming and wrapping every evening as we prepare at least one child for swimming lessons, basketball, ballet or some other weekly activity. Subtract two to three for getting them and ourselves out of winter gear upon arrival, three to four more getting it all back on when it’s time to leave.

Days after a snowfall – and lately every day seems to be the day after a snowfall – there’s clearing the driveway and sidewalks. Depending on the depth, that’s another 20-35 minutes.

Add one-and-a-half every time we have to get ourselves ready to go outside, which is four to six times a day, and that’s another six to nine minutes.

And let’s not forget the extra drive time. Depending on the destination, slippery conditions add five to 10 minutes easy. Make it two to four excursions per day on average, and that’s 10 to 40 more minutes.

Put it all together, and the Mama-Papa duo is snatching away an hour and 19 minutes to two hours and 20 minutes every single winter day. That’s a tremendous amount of valuable productivity down the drain, where it freezes and forces an after-hours, double-time service call to the plumber.

But, hey, we’re reasonable; another hour is all we’re asking. Let us know if you want to talk it over. We should have some time while we get the kids ready for school.

Spirit of the Games

Originally published under the headline, "Reliving the spirit of Games," in The Forum, Fargo, N.D., on Feb. 19, 2010, during the 2010 Winter Games in Vancouver, British Columbia, Canada

To Calgary and back, and my signature Olympic moment came in Circle, Mont.

Coming up on spring break 1988, my NDSU roommate, Brian Johnson, turned from the Olympics preview on TV and said, “Hey, we should go.” I guffawed, then saw he was serious. “It’s spring break,” he said. “Everyone else is going south. Let’s go north.”

We took off for Alberta two weeks later with no plan, no idea where we’d stay and no clue how we’d get event tickets. No matter. When would we ever have that chance again, with the Olympics within driving distance, time to take advantage and nothing but getting there to worry about? Never. We drove all night with the lights of cities like Moose Jaw, Swift Current and Medicine Hat illuminating the cab and wound up in a flea bag an hour from Calgary, the closest motel with any rooms to rent.

With scalped tickets we saw bobsledding, ski jumping and even a little hockey history when Finland beat Russia 2-1. The following year the Berlin Wall fell, marking the beginning of the end for the U.S.S.R. Turned out the loss was the final Olympic hockey game for the Big Red Bear.

I’ve tried to explain the feel of a city in the midst of an Olympics many times, never with success. Saying there is a palpable sensation of goodwill is cliché, but true. Days were thousands of people from dozens of nations mingling and cheering, making new friends, soaking it all in without a hint of animosity, pettiness or rude behavior. Nights the city danced in and out of clubs and restaurants, with dozens of languages floating through the air and the people of one world savoring the moments.

We hit the road for home fresh with the spirit of the games, broke and happy. We pushed the old car down Highway 2 in Alberta and hit Montana in the dark, dodging jackrabbits with The Doors blaring through the speakers to keep us alert through the long miles.

Circle, population around 550, is not a place to run out of gas in the middle of a cold, March night. Or so I thought as we drove up and down the town’s main drag in the wee hours. Finally we pulled off in a local churchyard, broke out the sleeping bags and bedded down on the frozen ground.

I woke to muffled murmuring and peeped out the tiny hole of my mummy bag to see several men gazing down, debating what to make of the two strangers. Turns out they were the church’s council members gathered for their monthly breakfast meeting. After we explained who we were, where we’d been and where we were heading, they invited us in. I’ve never tasted pancakes and sausage so good, and the opportunity to talk about what we’d just experienced was even better.

Certainly, “faster, stronger, higher” captures the athletic prowess and drive for perfection of the Olympics, but the games are more than that. They are an opportunity for the world to gather in peaceful competition and camaraderie. It is an occasion, if you will, to invite an outsider in for a warm meal.

In one of those ordinary, everyday miracles that Sarah McLachlan sang about in the 2010 Opening Ceremonies, I found the Olympic spirit in Circle. We left, gas tank and bellies full, with a memory that eclipses the event that drew us out of Fargo in the first place. For me, 22 years later, the Olympics are still about a warm cup of coffee, a smile and, most importantly, kindness to a stranger.

Go world.

Mighty Mauer at the Bat

Bottom of the 9th. Down three runs. One runner on, two outs, behind in the count… Wham!

Closer Jon Papelbon and his Red Sox teammates could only gawk as the ball jumped, climbed, soared into the highest collapsed seats of right center field, then turn away, hang their heads and watch from under their brims as the batter circled the bases. Whatchya gonna do? Papelbon seemed to say with a dejected head shake and shoulder slump. It’s Joe Mauer.

It was May 25, the beginning of the four-game home series against Boston. In the bottom of the 9th the Twins were down 6-3, and down to their last hope to pull out a win.

Jason Kubel led off with a single to right, and the rally caps were on. Michael Cuddyer stepped up but struck out looking. Brian Buscher’s fly to center was out number two. Mike Redmond was next in the order, but Manager Ron Gardenhire called for a pinch hitter. A rumble rose from the lower level seats to the upper deck and on up to the cover of the Metrodome. People got up, clapping like crazy, cheering, “Joe! Joe! Joe!” Twins fans sensed a little of that May Mauer Magic.

Mauer strode confidently to the plate. He’d been sitting all day because of a hand injury suffered against the Brewers the previous evening, but no matter. The low rumble rose, louder and louder to become the “lusty yell” that greeted Mighty Casey in Mudville.

After each pitch there was a hush, then a slow rebuilding of the lusty yell, a hush, and again the dull roar would build again. Then, down in the count, one ball and two strikes, Ka-Blam! Everyone in the place knew it was gone the moment he made contact, and we went wild.

Not that anyone – from the Twins, the Sox, the media or among the fans – was surprised. Mauer had been doing it throughout May. He had been so hot with the bat that, according the Twins beat writer for MLB.com, Kelly Thesier, the chit-chat in the Twins bullpen wasn’t the usual about opposing batters, but what each pitcher would do if he had to face Joe Mauer. As opposing teams have been saying week in and week out, Watchya gonna do?

The long ball against Boston was the catcher’s third in three consecutive games. In May, Mauer went yard 11 times, and he had a club record 32 RBIs. “Mauer’s month has not just been impressive, it’s been historic,” wrote Thesier. “His .414 batting average, .500 on-base percentage and .838 slugging percentage were the best in May among any player in baseball who recorded at least 75 plate appearances.” He hasn’t slowed much since. Three weeks into June, Mauer was still batting .407.

The Shot, as I’ll forever call it, was one for the ages. It wasn’t just that Mauer hit the ball so hard, so high or so far, but that he did it ice cold after sitting on the bench all day. Ice it was, too, because that’s clearly what flows through Mauer’s veins. And it isn’t that he hit the dinger, but that everyone expected, or feared, he would. I’m guessing Mauer had the same expectation, and that’s what makes him so fun to watch and cheer for, even if you’re a fan of the other team.

After the din died in the Dome, Delmon Young came to the plate. But the rally caps faltered; it was a fly out to right. Game over. Sox, 6; Twins, 5.

In the great scheme, The Shot didn’t mean much. It came in a losing effort in a run-of-the-mill game on an average day in the regular season. But there isn’t anything run-of-the-mill, average or regular about the guy who provided its signature moment. Unlike Casey, this guy delivers.

There’s a new might in M-ville, and his name is Mauer.

A Good Day for North Dakota

Originally published in The Forum, Fargo, N.D. under the headline, “A belated redemption for UND,” on June 7, 2009

“A sad day for North Dakota,” Kris Engelstad McGarry called it. With all due respect to McGarry, many North Dakotans view it as a day of redemption when some sense was restored to a state that thrives on common sense.

McGarry, daughter of the late Ralph Engelstad, referred to the North Dakota State Board of Higher Education’s May 14 decision to accelerate the deadline for tribal approval of the University of North Dakota Fighting Sioux nickname. If the two North Dakota Sioux tribes do not approve 30-year agreements to support continued use of the name by October, UND must begin transitioning to a new moniker and symbol.

It is a belated redemption because the current board has taken a positive step to correct the action of the board of December 2000. That board inserted itself into the nickname/logo debate the day after Engelstad sent the now infamous “Dear Chuck” letter to then-UND president Charles Kupchella. In the Dec. 20, 2000 letter, Engelstad wrote that he would halt work on the half-completed Ralph Engelstad Arena, what was destined to become the home of the UND hockey team, if the Sioux name and logo were not retained. At the time, he had invested $35 million into the $85 million project. He sent copies of the letter to members of the Board of Higher Education, which was set to meet the next day.

“Please do not consider this letter a threat in any manner, as it is not intended to be,” Engelstad wrote.

We North Dakotans tend to call things the way we see them, and that was what we call a threat. It was a strong one, at that, a gun held to the head of Kupchella, UND and North Dakota as a whole. When the board voted unanimously to retain the Sioux name and logo, it gave him the ammunition.

That was the real sad day for North Dakota, regardless of how you feel about the name issue. And there really is no need to add anything to that discussion.

Fervent voices have adequately presented the arguments on both sides. I can appreciate the strong feelings of those who love the Sioux name and logo. As a North Dakota State University alumnus, I would have the same deep feelings if someone said “Bison” had to go away. I can also understand those who question the use of a name and logo that members of the culture they represent find demeaning or offensive.

What many North Dakotans didn’t like was the intimidation, and our loss of self-respect was even worse. Do as I say, Engelstad clearly told us, or you won’t get your hockey arena. This, to people who have fended for ourselves for generations. Who was Engelstad to tell us what we could or could not do? Surely, if UND needed a new arena that badly, funds could be raised in other ways from other people.

Unfortunately, the board apparently saw it another way and, with its 8-0 vote, sent a return letter to Engelstad with our pride enclosed.

By all accounts, the Engelstad Arena is a marvel, a monument to UND, its hockey team and Engelstad himself. But it cost us much more than the money it took to build.

In her comments, McGarry said she was not surprised by the “lack of conviction” of the state board and UND President Robert Kelly in fighting for the Sioux name and logo. On the contrary, their actions demonstrated a return to conviction, a restoration of the pride that will not allow North Dakota to be bullied, regardless of how much money is at stake.