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.

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.

Thanks for Being Here

Originally published on April 1, 2009, in The Forum, Fargo, under the headline, “They will not be forgotten,” and in the Minneapolis Star Tribune under the header, “Couldn’t have done it without them.”

There was Ron from the St. Paul area, who had been here all week. Randy, a sophomore in high school in Apple Valley, Minn., was here, too. He and his father had come up early that morning and planned to return home late that night. They took turns at the sand pile, sharing the one pair of gloves they had between them.

Last week at the Fargodome I met and filled sandbags alongside Ron and Randy and many others, like a group of guys from Kraus-Anderson Construction Company in Minneapolis. I learned that, once upon a time in 1997, KA had an office in Grand Forks; they knew what we faced better than we did.

There were people from Watertown, S.D., Brainerd, Minn. and Fingal, N.D. Even though I caught and passed down the line most of what they threw my way, I didn’t get some of their names or where they were from. But I’ll remember them for a long time.

Same goes for the guy wearing a cap that proclaimed his belonging to a New Orleans fire department. And to the United Auto Workers from Michigan who reportedly received a round of applause when they arrived at the Fargodome on Thursday. Word on the floor was that, since they were laid off, they decided to come lend their work-worn hands to our great effort.

They all had one thing in common: no personal, long-term stake in our fight or the fate of our community. Their only motive was to do the neighborly thing and help save our towns and our homes. They did it vigorously, helping us fill around 3 million sandbags in less than a week, build miles of dikes, make thousands of sandwiches, haul people to hot spots, and on and on.

They also did it with fortitude. Some were here all week, breaking their backs for hours filling bags, hefting them and passing them down lines. They worked harder and longer than many – possibly most – of our own citizens, people who definitely had something at stake like loved ones, homes and possessions. I know they worked harder and longer than I did.

The out-of-towners joined people like Clinton, a Fargoan and architect a T.L. Stroh, and Tim, an associate dean of one of NDSU’s colleges. I also met Deb and her 12-year-old son, Hunter. They had their south Fargo home as ready as it could be and wanted to help in other ways. Their shovel-bag-tie crew included Ron from St. Paul, who had been tying bags for so many days in a row that the skin was worn off of his right pinkie.

During lulls, I asked Ron and other out-of-towners, “Why did you come? What brought you here?” They were humble to a person. “I just wanted to lend a hand,” was the most common answer, followed by, “I just felt like I should be here.”

At the Saturday, March 28 daily city commission briefing, the Red Cross said it was coordinating housing for around 350 out-of-town people who were here to help. I’m guessing there were a whole lot more they didn’t know about. All these folks had safe, dry homes far, far away that they left to come to our aid. It was amazing, and wonderful.

There have been thousands of hometown heroes during the flood fight, but also heroes who have pitched in with nothing to gain. To all of them I say thank you for being here. We might have been able to make the dikes as high, as strong and as fast without you, but I would never want to go back and find out.

A Happy Blizzard Surprise

* Originally published in The Forum, Fargo, N.D., on Dec. 21, 2008.

Something unexpected blew in with last week’s 24-hour blast of wind and snow – a little extra warmth.

Warmth and blizzard. The two words just don’t seem to go together. And yet, that’s exactly the connection that came to mind as I sat at the dinner table playing “Battleship” with my 7-year-old daughter on Monday afternoon.

The snow swirled and the wind howled outside the sliding glass door leading to our deck, and I realized I felt sorry for anyone who had never experienced a good ol’ North Dakota blizzard.

Bah, you say. Pitying people who don’t have to endure sub-sub-freezing temperatures, skin-peeling wind chills, lost work days, digging out of snow up to the eaves? You’re a nutter.

Of course you’re right. It’s an absurd thought. But here’s the thing …

“E-Seven,” my daughter called out, looking at me expectantly. Next to me at the table my son was engrossed in his coloring, my wife and our 17-month-old snuggled in our bed for a nap, and the Christmas tree sparkled in the living room.

“Miss,” I said. “F-Two.”

A huge gust shook the windows, taking me back to a winter in Medora, N.D., when I was about 7. My dad, who was the Billings County emergency manager, was on the telephone coordinating air drops of hay for local cattle herds trapped in the draws of the Badlands. He was a busy man that winter, and many of those winters in the early and mid-’70s.

It wasn’t Jack London, frozen-spit cold that day, but it felt like it. Even so, our little cocker spaniel, Boss, couldn’t be coaxed into the house. She rushed up the back stairs, put on the brakes and skidded toward the door. But she was well-trained; no way was she coming in. Instead, she turned around and jumped headlong into the snowbank next to her doghouse, backed out and joyfully shook snow every which way.

I went back downstairs to put an addition onto the blanket fort I was building in the family room, jumped on the couch when Mom wasn’t looking and, later, sat in Dad’s lap to watch a hockey game in front of the crackling fireplace.

“Miss,” said my daughter. “A-Six.”

Those winters were a wonderland. When the blizzards died down, the drifts were so tall that my friends and I dug out two-story snow forts. One Christmas at my grandparents’ house in Zeeland, N.D., they were high enough to completely cover the backyard swing set, and so wind hardened that we could walk right over it. A 7-year-old’s simple winter thrill.

Blizzards meant playtime and hot cocoa back then, the soothing aroma of homemade soup and extra time with the erector set.

“Miss. F-Five.”

Our Sunday-Monday storm was ugly, mean, dangerous. With the kids home and businesses closed, time was a-wastin’ by our normal standards. But sitting there, warm, safe and happy, I realized it was really time stolen from the forces that keep us rushing through the here and there of every day. It was time I would never regain, in work terms, but also time with my family I never would have had otherwise.

“Miss. C-Three.”

Mother Nature is cruel, to be sure. Blizzards are not to be trifled with, and over the years they’ve cut lives short. But last weekend I learned she can be a giver, too. What a surprise for this 40-year-old that a weekday blizzard means as much now as it did when I was 7, and even more.

“Hit,” I said. And for me, it really was.

Blizzard and warmth. Absolutely, and what a gift.

Moin, Moin U.S. Wind

Originally published in The Forum, Fargo,on November 9, 2008

In northern Germany, “moin moin” is the short way of saying hello. Turn around and say goodbye, and “tschüss” is the word.

I learned the words while working for the world’s largest and longest-running wind energy industry trade show last month. While there, I couldn’t help wondering why we in The States have been so willing to forego moin for tschüss when it comes to wind.

HUSUM WindEnergy is held every two years in Husum, Germany, a town of about 20,000 on The North Sea in the federal state of Schleswig-Holstein. It more than doubles the town’s population with 23,000 visitors and hundreds of exhibitors, including the biggest global names in wind.

As I flew into Hamburg, I noticed how much Schleswig-Holstein is like our home here on the North Dakota-Minnesota border. It is mostly flat with rows of trees and shrubs, fields of corn and cabbage and pastures full of cattle and sheep. And, like home, the wind blows there, a lot.

There was one striking difference, however. In Schleswig-Holstein, wind turbines are everywhere.

Whether Schleswig-Holstein is truly “The Birthplace of Modern Wind Energy,” as folks there like to say, one thing is certain – the German state is a leader in wind energy development and generation.

There are thousands of turbines in Schleswig-Holstein. According to Prime Minister Peter Harry Carsten, 40 percent of the state’s electricity comes from wind, and that is expected to triple by 2020. Speaking at “The New Energy Economy,” a forum hosted by the Global Wind Energy Council (GWEC) during HUSUM, Carsten said wind has created about 7,000 jobs and annually generates €6 million in tax revenue.

The GWEC forum also featured regional case studies from China, Denmark and France. In each, wind development has created a substantial number of jobs, propped up local and regional economies and generated substantial revenues.

The same is beginning to happen here. In Sweetwater, Texas, a town of 12,000, more than 1,124 people are employed in wind. Mayor Greg Wortham says that represents 20 percent of jobs created since 2003, and the regional economic impact is more than $400 million. That’s big money for any rural community.

I thought about that potential during my return to one of our country’s most rural areas. What I didn’t see out the airplane window highlighted the stark difference between Germany and the USA. Flying into Minneapolis, then Fargo, I saw one turbine. One.

Wind generation in North Dakota, estimated by AWEA using capacity totals from the end 2007, was 1.8 percent of state generation as reported by the U.S. Energy Information Agency. This, despite the fact that North Dakota has the greatest potential in the nation, has way more potential than Schleswig-Holstein and is often called the “Saudi Arabia of Wind.”

Schleswig-Holstein, 40 percent; North Dakota, 1.8. Apples to apples, oranges to oranges, turbines to turbines – any way you wield the comparative knife, 20 times more makes for one heck of a big slice.

Other Great North American Wind Corridor states don’t stack up much better. Consider the others in the top five for wind potential: Texas, 2 percent; Kansas, 2.3; South Dakota, 2.6; and Montana, 1.7.

There are reasons for these deficiencies. In our state, the transmission infrastructure is not sufficient for moving wind-generated electricity, and the cost of building more is huge. Other national challenges include a limited supply of towers, turbines and other equipment; the uncertainty of the federal wind production tax credit (PTC); and opposition to what some consider unattractive turbines.

As we grapple with those challenges, the wind keeps blowing, its benefits still more or less invisible.

The good news is more states are adopting Renewable Portfolio Standards, many are working to address challenges that hinder development, Congress just renewed the PTC, people are listening as T. Boone Pickens promotes wind around the country, and President-elect Barack Obama has promised that wind will play a significant role in his energy policy.

The answer to our national energy crisis is not entirely blowin’ in the wind, but it can certainly be a bigger part of the solution. We can and should be more like Schleswig-Holstein. Whatever it takes, let’s say “moin” to more wind.

Not Quite Dead Rock Stars

Originally published in The Forum, Fargo, under the headline, “The Sweet older, but still Sweet” on July 20, 2008

Rock isn’t dead.

I saw it myself late last Thursday on a delayed flight from Chicago to Fargo. And to quote a 35-year-old hit, “It was like lightning / Everybody was frightening / And the music was soothing / And they all started grooving…”

Jump back to 1973, shaggy hair, post-political-activism youth and drugs that have become more than harmless recreation. (I was only five years old, but never mind; you can read all about “The Scene” on the Web these days.) English glam rock band The Sweet has just released “Ballroom Blitz.” The song has soared to number 1 in Australia and hit number 2 in the U.K. In the United States, it will become one of the biggest hits of 1975.

Flash forward to O’Hare International. It’s 11:30 p.m., thunderstorms have delayed flights across the Midwest, and I’m standing at gate F1B with two business colleagues.

We’re red-eyed, beat and bemused by some commotion close to the United desk, where two women in their late 50s or early 60s are fawning over a scraggly haired man. He’s sporting a black jacket with stylized, blood-red letters on the back: “Rock ‘n’ Roll Religion.” The wrinkles on his face belie his age; clearly, the long locks are more grey than brown these days.

Several men seated nearby in black Pink Floyd and Harley T-shirts, black jeans and Puma rocker shoes joke around while closely following the groupie exchange. Rock ‘n’ Roll Religion signs a scrap of paper for one of the women, takes her hand and kisses it. As they walk away, she and her giggling friend brush past me. Clearly, for tonight at least, “…she’s the passionate one, oh, yeah.”

“I’ll give you a buck if you ask those women who they are,” says my companion,
motioning toward the old dudes in black.

“What if I ask ‘em myself?”

“Two bucks.”

Over I go. “Who are you guys?”

“The Sweet,” says Religion with the flourish of a hand, which happens to be holding a tiny bottle of Jack Daniels, Smirnoff, Southern Comfort or some such.

“You mean, like “Ballroom Blitz”?

There’s a collective eye roll at the mention of The Sweet’s most popular song.
Religion counters with a quick list of some of the band’s other, less-known
singles. Sure, I say, sure.

We chat a few minutes. Turns out they’re headed for Walker, Minn. to perform at Moondance Jam. The band has been delayed for hours, just like us. If the plane isn’t cleared soon, Religion jokes, they’re going to rent bicycles. I laugh, shake his hand, wish him a good show in Walker.

I report back to my colleague, who shoves a couple of bills toward me. I glance back at Religion – keyboardist/guitarist Steve Grant, I think, but it’s hard to tell –
and wave away my winnings as he downs the contents of the little bottle.

Three decades after hitting its stride, The Sweet is worth much more than two bucks. I paid eight to download the band’s greatest hits for my iPod, and it’s $85 for a single-day pass to Moondance to see them play, even though only one of four 1973 band members is still in it.

No, rock isn’t dead. It’s just older, heavier, sporting a bad dye job and flying coach on the red-eye to Fargo. London to Walker, they’ve come a long way, baby. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah….!”

Presenting Ordinary Americans

Originally published in The Forum, April 2008. This piece responds to “Can’t find candidate’s ‘ordinary people,’” a column by Editorial Page Editor Jack Zaleski in The Forum, Fargo, N.D. on April 6, 2008.

Introductions are obviously in order. Mr. Zaleski, allow me to present to you
several million ordinary Americans.

I mean “ordinary,” in the broad sense that Sen. Barack Obama is using the word. It encompasses many characteristics, does not require all of them to be present in every person, and defies narrow definition. It certainly does not, as you suggest, exclude the well educated, professionals or even those who make a lot of money.

I surmise that, for your April 6, column (Can’t find candidate’s ‘ordinary people’), you either could not resist the clever angle or found it difficult to build a substantive criticism of Obama’s positions. Either way, in this ordinary American’s view, your commentary was not constructive, instructive or otherwise useful.

For anyone who has paid attention to Obama over the past year, several things
are clear about his use of “ordinary.” Perhaps some contrast will help.

We ordinary Americans are not the privileged few who inherited millions from our elders and have never put in a hard day’s work. We are not executives with seven-figure salaries and extravagant perks. We are not part of oil companies that enjoy windfall profits while getting tax breaks. We do not lead businesses that get sweetheart contracts from the Administration through secretive, noncompetitive processes.

We are not lying CEOs who bilk people out of jobs and retirements, get a slap on the wrist and walk away with our ill-gotten riches intact. We are not elected officials who behave as if we are above the law. We certainly are not like the former New York governor; besides being unable to afford the $80,000, we wouldn’t go to a prostitute in the first place.

Now, some of what we ordinary Americans are.

We are hard-working couples who pay our taxes and are falling behind every day this Administration’s policies remain in effect. We are mothers and fathers whose sons and daughters have been sent off to a war initiated under false pretenses.

We are individuals working two and three jobs to pay the rent, who drive old cars and go without health insurance. We are elderly folks on fixed incomes who must choose between turning up the heat and buying bread. We are middle-income families who look down the road at escalating costs and wonder how we’ll send our children to college.

Many of us care about people first, regardless of cost. We worry about environmental degradation and the kind of world our kids will inherit. Some of us are Democrats, some Republicans, some Independents and some, unfortunately, do not pay attention to the political process.

We ordinary Americans are tired of commentary that detracts from our nation’s challenges and possible solutions. We could do without purposely divisive words that do nothing to elevate the level of discussion. We want the discussion to happen and to involve level-headed people who have the courage to put themselves and their ideas on the line.

There’s much more to us, of course, but you get the idea. Our ordinariness is, as you noted, complex, but Obama’s use of the term allows for – even encourages – the complexity.

One more thing. Most of us would not pull one word from the context of an entire campaign, hyper-focus on it and twist it to backhandedly criticize a candidate and undermine his proposals. No, that would be dishonest, misleading…downright low.

So, here we are, Jack, millions of ordinary Americans. Too bad we couldn’t meet under more ordinary circumstances.

Gee, Dad, You're Such a Dork

Originally printed in The Forum on Father’s Day, June 16, 2002, under the headline, “I’m more and more like Dad”

"Mart probably fell into the toilet, and Dad's making a list of ways to get him out."

That punch line, originally delivered by my older sister when we were just kids, never fails to bring a laugh at family gatherings. It's a short story that recently took on new meaning for me.

It happened many years ago when the family was out to eat at a fast-food place. Before heading for home, Dad took me into the bathroom. When we didn't return for a long, long time, my Mother wondered aloud what could be keeping us. That's when my sister came out with the zinger.

To get it, you have to understand a little about my father. Since I can remember he's made extensive lists for everything — every day outing, extended family trip or weekend fishing excursion. Extra socks. Extra T-shirts. Underwear, candy bars, fruit, thermoses, water bottles, maps, compasses, rain gear, boots — anything you might need, no matter how critical or insignificant, and with numbers next to each item (not just extra T-shirts, but two extra T-shirts). As far as Dad's concerned, every occasion warrants a list.

It drove us all crazy.

Now I'm a list maker. My patient bride often says to me, a hint of laughter in her eyes, "Do you really think you're going to forget extra underwear for the weekend?"

I'm a dad, now, too. My daughter, Saela Joy, was born last November, and soon I'll be driving her batty. Fifteen years or so from now, as she prepares to leave for a state basketball tournament somewhere, I'll pull out a list of things she should take. She'll roll her eyes and say, "Daaaddd, you're such a dork!"

It's going to happen, because with each passing year I get more and more like Dad. In his honor, here's a list or two to illustrate:

I get up and exercise every morning, just like Dad. I sometimes wear a stocking cap to bed (as he's reminded me hundreds of times over the years, 90 percent of your heat is lost through your head). I carry a pocketknife. I pack enough survival gear into our vehicles every winter to last a month, leaving no room for suitcases. I walk every day and, because I'm getting older, I sometimes find myself stretching in public places afterwards.

Just like Dad, I carry around the bane of every teenager's existence, a red handkerchief. And I'm not afraid to use it. Man, I just cringed every time he'd pull that ratty thing out in public. "Daaadd," I'd whine in horror, "do you have to do that here?" Now I do it myself.

He's been right about so many things. Here's a partial list:

Be prepared for anything. Daily exercise and stretching keep your body healthy. You do lose a lot of heat through your head. Survival gear might save you in a North Dakota blizzard. It's better to have a handkerchief handy than to wipe your nose on your sleeve, especially in public.

Think positive. Appreciate and respect nature. Make time for your family, and some for yourself, too. Be kind to other people, and don't talk about them behind their backs. Help your neighbors, and thank them when they help you.

So, in so many ways beyond the idiosyncrasies, I'm becoming my father.

Yes, some day my daughter will look at me and say, "Daaadd, you're such a dork!" I'll smile at the compliment, because I'll know I'm doing my job, taking care of my kids, teaching them things and keeping them safe.

On my first Father's Day, here's to all the Dads out there, especially mine.

“Thou Shalt Not Kill” Has No Provisos

Originally published in The Forum, Fargo, June 17, 2001

So we killed Timothy McVeigh.

Monday morning, June 11, I was filled with sadness. It was difficult,at first, to put a finger on its cause. I certainly was not sad for McVeigh, a monster who killed 168 people, wounded many more and permanently scarred their families.

As I went about my morning routine, avoiding media reports out of Terre Haute, Ind., I thought not about the monster but about his victims, and I mourned them. But my sadness went deeper. Finally I realized I was grieving for a nation that kills its killers, a society that sinks to the level of a murderer to punish its murderers.

Following an execution, a doctor enters the death chamber to declare a prisoner dead, fix the time of death and list the cause: "state-ordered legal homicide."

Legal homicide. Legal murder.

For the record, I believe in punishing criminals and protecting society from them. I just don't think execution is the right way to do it. Lest I be labeled and discounted as a bleeding heart, I'll quickly dispense with the emotional arguments against capital punishment and move on to those that are quantifiable.

Just as it is not morally defensible for an individual to take a human life, it is not morally defensible for a government, for us, to do so. By killing criminals, however evil they might be, we become guilty. If their actions were evil – and surely they were – can ours be justified?

Those with a Christian religious bent might put it this way: the Sixth Commandment has no provisos. It does not say, "Thou shalt not kill, except those who have caused you, your family or your neighbors egregious harm."

Finally, putting dangerous criminals to death ends their suffering. A more appropriate punishment would be to keep them locked up forever. Even if they are like McVeigh, who seemed to relish the attention and used his incarceration
as a soapbox to preach his vile messages of hate and vengeance. We should let them suffer behind bars for decades, watching media interest wane as the world marches by.

Now for more logical arguments.

It actually costs taxpayers much less to try, convict and imprison a murderer for life than it costs us to try, convict and execute one.

To illustrate, the Death Penalty Information Center cites a 1993 Duke University study. As one example of the high cost of capital punishment, the study found, "... the death penalty costs North Carolina $2.16 million per execution over the costs of a non-death penalty murder case with a sentence of imprisonment for life. On a national basis, these figures translate to an extra cost of over $1 billion dollars spent since 1976 on the death penalty."

There is too much potential for error. According to the DPIC, 96 death row inmates in 22 states have been released since 1973 because substantial evidence of their innocence came to light. Many of them spent years behind bars, and some were within hours of being executed. Is satisfying our need for retribution worth killing even one innocent person?

Capital punishment is not a deterrent. Many studies have seriously challenged the argument that executions deter others from committing violent crimes. In fact, some studies cited by the DPIC found that, in the states and counties studied, homicide actually increased in several categories after the United States reinstated the death penalty.

So we killed this monster. What did we accomplish? Our actions cost millions more than necessary and won't deter future crimes. We weren't able to bring back any of the people he killed. His death didn't change in any way the loss their families have suffered and continue to suffer.

The Band Will Play On

Originally published in The Forum, November 2000

Last month, in the midst of all the blather surrounding Monica, Ken, Paula, Bill and all the bit players in Congress, it was refreshing to be reminded there are some things about this country that still exude dignity.

The U.S. Marine Band, dubbed “The President’s Own” by Thomas Jefferson, performed in the Crystal Ballroom at the Ramada Plaza Suites in October. I was fortunate enough to be in one of the front rows, tapping my feet to its rousing tunes. The talented musicians played some of my favorite marches, including “Sabre and Spurs” and “Semper Fidelis,” numbers I haven’t heard since my junior high school days.

Back then, I’d go over to my grandparents’ house after school in the early fall to cut the grass or rake the leaves. When I finished, whether I did a good job or not, my grandmother would invite me in and pay me $5-$10, with apple pie ala mode or chocolate chip cookies on the side. After ruining my dinner, I’d wander into the livingroom, where Martin C. “Red” Fredricks Jr. spent his retirement afternoons.

Grandpa Red would be sitting in his chair, watching Perry Mason on television or listening to the melancholy ballads of his Irish ancestors. When he was in a good mood, I’d hear the marches of John Philip Sousa.

My granddad was not the most gregarious or jovial person in the world. Truth to tell, I was afraid of him when I was younger. He was a district court judge for many years, and had that air of importance about him. Toa kid like me, the solemnity and foreboding flowed off of him like the long, black robes he wore in his courtroom.

But in those later years, he loosened up. We often played checkers, him letting me win until one day I truly trapped his last king, or we listened to the marches together. He’d be tapping his foot to “The Stars and Stripes Forever” blasting out of the phonograph. He’d be smiling, which for Grandpa Red was even more unusual than mindless chitchat. The music must have reminded him of whatever good came of his service in World War II.

By today’s standards, Red Fredricks was old for military service when the United States entered the war. He was married with small children at home, but he volunteered, anyway. He landed on Omaha Beach during the invasion of Normandy. Several days later, he was wounded while filling his canteen in a stream, and he spent months in Army hospitals recuperating. One of his wounds locked his elbow so that he couldn’t lift his left arm above his head, condemning him to years of zip-up neckties for Christmas from his namesake grandson.

Grandfather didn’t talk about the war, at least not to me. Only recently, when I saw the movie “Saving Private Ryan” did I gain at least a partial comprehension of what he and his buddies endured. They faced down tyranny, and many died, for something they believed in. For me.

At the end of the concert last month, the U.S. Marine Band played a medley of all the marches representing the various branches of service. The band’s moderator invited those who had served to stand and be recognized when their branch’s march was played. I saw the pride on the faces of those who stood, and the pride of their families who sat around them.

As the band played through the roaring applause, I was called back to lazy, cool, sunny afternoons in Grandpa’s livingroom. Seeing him there again, waving his arms, even the bad one, back and forth in time with the music, I knew his service was important.

Grandpa Red died several years ago, so he wasn’t there to stand as his march was played, but I was proud for him. I was too young and thoughtless before he died to thank him, to say I was proud to be his grandson. They say it’s never too late.

So, thank you, Grandpa, for serving your country, for making it a place where one day your great-grandchildren will enjoy the freedom you and your comrades sacrificed to preserve.

With Veteran’s Day just passed, I think about the concert and the men and women who stood to be recognized. I’m reminded there’s a whole lot of good about this country, like grand marches, fabulous bands to play them, apple pie, afternoons with grandparents and people who give of themselves for others.

The U.S. Marine Band, formed in 1798, has accompanied more sorry times in the White House and on Capitol Hill than these. We’ll get through this, too, and refocus on what’s really important. The band will play on.