In short, I went to bed.

About midnight, there was a knock on the door.  Rousing from my sleep, I found to my relief that Melvin had found the hotel and the room per my email instructions.  Now I could rest easy.

“Dude!  I didn’t fly all this way to get some sleep.  I’m going to hit the town.  If you want to come along you can, but I’m not sitting here at ten o’clock at night Melbourne time.” Melvin said.

Drat!  Done in by the time zone switch.

I knew we were in the center of the party district.  Both the fact that I’d seen the nightclubs on my first pass combined with the fact that the bass from the nightclubs across the street had kept up a constant “thud, thud, thud” from the window for the last forty-five minutes or so of blissful sleep.

Pulling on my pants, a shirt and some shoes, we headed out for one…maybe two last beverages at Christchurch’s finest evening establishments.

After a quick bit to eat at a local gyro shop on the corner (who can pass up a gyro late on a Friday night…ok, Melvin 1, Mark 0…I passed in up, wanting to save room for the beverage and still reeling from the Coyote), we surveyed the scene before us.

There were about ten bars to choose from, all with differing characteristics.  There was the country bar, the rap bar, the old folks bar, the Irish bar, the punk bar, the ‘mellow’ bar, the disco bar, the sports bar, the pop bar, the bar for people still trying to be kids but were really in their fifties, the bar for the kids who probably weren’t old enough to drink, and the expensive bar for the kids whose parents gave them too much money on a Friday night.

After walking up and down the street, checking out the patrons (i.e. women in high heeled boots and short skirts), and the quality of the live music, we made our decision, the Irish bar it was.

And faith and behgorrah, what a lovely Irish bar it was too.

On stage was the New Zealand folk Irish band, “Black Velvet.”  Their members were one of the most ecliptic groups of musicians I’ve ever seen.  From a very old and grizzled Celtic singer/tambourine and accordion player to the middle aged lead singer to the teenage bass player.  It was, for lack of a better term, multigenerational Celtic-Kiwi-Rock, and it was infectious.

The crowd (groups of women, dancing together, single men…dancing alone…) lapped it up like a thirty dog herding sheep (perhaps I’d spent too much time in New Zealand…).  The music was a good mix of, well, Celtic and rock.  They played some old favorites - Jack and Diane, along with some really old favorites with the help of fiddle and accordion with a little Irish bent.

It was great fun.

And the crowd, some drunk, some not, were fun to watch too.  The raised platform that held the pool table held three young ladies, all of them intoxicated, one of them, more so then the others.  The interactions and the observations that could be made from human behavior (both the ladies and the potential suitors) were astounding.

On the dance floor, you had groups of young women enjoying the music.  Groups of young men, trying to show off (one doing pushups on the dance floor…really!).  In the booths, something that seemed like speed dating was taking place.  One girl intently talking to one bloke, fifteen minutes later, intently talking to another.

For us, drinking our beer while leaning up against the bar, it was entertaining.

By three o’clock in the morning, the bar, and the band, were all about spent, and we headed for the door.

“On the road by nine am tomorrow?” I asked.

“Absolutely.” Replied Melvin.

Both of us lying.

 The plane landed in Christchurch shortly after six o’clock in the evening.

Getting my rental car, a bit of an ordeal in and of itself (you WANT that discount?  You WANT an automatic?) I was on to our sixty dollars a night hotel room in the heart of the Central Business District of Christchurch.  Melvin was due in at ten o’clock that night.

Christchurch is a small city, much smaller then Melbourne, or Auckland for that matter, but reminded me much of Fargo, North Dakota, the largest city to my birthplace.  It was small, but classy.  The smallest city on the South Island and the first city with a royal charter in all of New Zealand, it has an ‘I don’t care’ attitude…with a ‘but do what fits you best’ follow up to it.

The hotel was European in nature, by which I mean modern.  By which I mean small beds, small desk, and a bathroom you were hardly able to turn around in.

So I headed out on the town as I waited on Melvin to join me.

The place to go to grab a bite to eat was one of the many restaurants along the Avon River, which runs through the heart of the city, and was named thanks to two Scottish brothers whose home back in their native country was on the banks of the Scottish/English river by the same name.

In truth, there were only about a dozen restaurants along the Avon River, and each held their own sway.  The one seemed to be a fancy steak place.  One, the ‘Coyote’ Bar was American Southwest with a New Zealand flare, one was filled with 20 and 30 something drinkers, one was filled with rambunctious teenagers and early twenty somethings.  The next looked like a fancy coffee house.  Then was the English pub…in short, all had their own schtick to get people in.

And me, which did I chose?

The $20 steak of course.

But that $20 steak also cost me another $17 in beer and wine (the food was good, the service…slightly slow), but the sight was priceless. The people walking up and down the street was a wide swath of Christchurch, and probably world life.  And many of the women, well, were quite beautiful.

The meal was fantastic, but don’t ask me how the food tasted.  Was far too busy watching the Kiwi lasses that flitted down the street, in their boots and short skirts, even in the New Zealand winter, seemed to glide upon the air.

Not wanting to spend all night at one place (and finding the service at my $20 steak place nice to look at, but poor in attentiveness), headed down the street.

I did something that, as an American and a fan of other cultures, I shouldn’t have done…I went to the only American bar on the street.  At the time, it seemed a poor choice, but it made for an interesting evening.  The Coyote, the place that billed itself as a mix of Sante Fe and New Zealand, was more New Zealand then American in my mind.  The beer was local, the servers were all Kiwi’s.

But the waitress, at least mine, loved Americans.

Walking up to the bar and ordering a beer, she gave me a great smile.  Ordering up my beer, she asked, “You aren’t an American by chance?”

What gave it away I wondered?  My poor fashion or my accent?

“Yes I am!” I replied.

“Why don’t you sit at the bar?” she asked.  ”I love Americans.”

For the next two hours, I drank beer, I think paying for it all, and enjoyed one of the best bowls of ice cream I’ve ever had.

Off and on through the night, she quizzed me on the wonders of America, the beauty of the landscape, the intricacies of the political system, the strangeness of her people.  All the while, an acoustical group (well, I say acoustical group, but one of the two members seemed much more intent upon eating his, I presume, complimentary food and beer and letting the other carry the load…which listening to each of them was probably a good allocation of the resources available…I digress…).

At some point, a couple of hours into the quizzing and consumption, a switch kicked in on my brain and I decided that I had best get out of town while I could and retired to the hotel for the evening.  With email from Melvin saying he wouldn’t get in until midnight, figuring that all that was left for the night was a good nights sleep.

 ”Alright, settle down…just a touch.” So spoke Mr. Erickson, our FFA Advisor as we rambunctiously piled into the van.

But for a group of farm kids ready to be let loose in the big city, how could we not be excited?

OK, so I use the term, ‘big city’ loosely.  This was our FFA/Ag Education summer trip, and we were heading to Fargo, North Dakota.  But for those of us that grew up in our town (or out of our town) of slightly more than a thousand people, Fargo, with a population of over one hundred thousand was a metropolis.

And we were going to see all of the best sites - the Livestock Auction, the Slaughterhouse, and the Tractor Factory…with lunch at Hardee’s.

Not a bad day for a group of farm kids from Mahnomen.

Our first stop was the livestock auction in West Fargo.  For most of us, I think we envisioned the sight of a cow being led into a pen and the auctioneer letting fly like she was a box of tools at an estate sale.  In truth, the system was much more complex, with pens of similar shaped and sized animals being bid on by buyers with computer printouts and charts at the ready.  Wanting to make sure that the carcass size and quality matched what they were looking for in their lots.

Then it was on to the slaughter plant.

Growing up, the process was a very personal thing.  We knew the animals that we harvested - that we processed for their meat.  We took them from their mothers, milk fed them by hand, moved them on the feed yard, and carefully watched their development until they were processed, by our own hands, into the steak and hamburger that we enjoyed throughout the year.

At the meat plant in West Fargo, it was much more impersonal.

The animals were led, humanely, through the process, knocked unconscious, lifted by their hind legs, throat cut, skinned and cut up.  For those that have seen, witnessed, or been a part of it, it was very natural, for those that had not, it wasn’t so much.

It didn’t help that the guy in charge of cutting the throats of the beeves making it across the kill floor was such a colorful character.  We were dressed in hairnets and white coats, crossing the catwalk above the kill floor as he hit his break.

Stepping back from the latest carcass, knife that had just cut the throat of the latest beef in one hand, the front of his white coat covered in blood, and took his Diet Coke off his chair.  Swirling the glass in the air, he looked up at us, said loudly enough for us to hear, “Better then working at the zoo!” and proceeded to take a long swig on his Diet Coke.

It was all a bit surreal.

Of course, our next stop was Hardee’s where we all enjoyed a big hamburger with fries (hey, we lived this stuff) then it was off to our last stop of the day - Case International’s Steiger Plant.

Steigers, for those not familiar with the agricultural lexicon, was one of the first four wheel drive tractors in the world, and was developed in the northwestern corner of Minnesota.  Case International (the combined forces of the Case Tractor Company and the International Harvestor Company) bought the rights to the tractor in the eighties and still operate the plant.

For many of it, it was the first look inside a manufacturing facility.  And it was impressive.  Massive in size and scale, it was manufacturing on a massive scale.  The amount of metal, steel, rubber, and hydraulics was astounding.  Robots cut and formed the steel and iron for the behemoths that would be working the fields in only weeks time.

It was stunning for someone whose largest tractor was an 806 International.

Driving home that night, just in time for evening chores, we were tired, but our eyes were wide open with the thought of the massive industry that American agriculture was and represented.

 Meetings finished, I headed to the airport during the height of Auckland Rushhour traffice.  Whih to the New Zelanders seemes crippling…to visiters from other parts of the world, seems, well, a little quant.  More like run hour in Fargo, North Dakota or a very small gall stone,…small, irriatating, but quickly passed.

My cab driver obviously knew the city nd the streets and regaled me with stories about the surrounding hillsides. And mountaints.  Telling me about the over hundred volcanos, some lakes, some hills, some peaks….and few of them extinct…most mrerely dormant…a chilling thought in a city of over one million people.

But listening to the taxi driver, it was pretty clear that he wasn’t a native Kiwi.

“This is a nice day, aside from the showers.” I commented.

“Eye, it tis.” Came the reply, “Not coooold like me home back in Scotland.” He replied.

“Your Scottish?” I asked. “How long have you been here?”

“Eye, Socttish indeed, though more a Keeweee den a Scottssman.” He replied.  “Ben he-are neigh on forty years.”

“Why did you move out here ” I asked with some curiosity.

“Wanted to get away from the cold of home, so like many a good Scottish lad, joned the merchant marine.  Proud sailing heritage wa have.” He said, with clear pride in his ancestory, his chest puffing up just a bit.

“Then why New Zealand?” I asked.

“Eye lad, same as many a man common to a port o’call…a lass drug me a shore, got sitten, and I fell hed o’ra heels for her.  Eye didn’ta stand a chance.” He remarked smilling.  The nwith a serious look replied, “Of course, that lasted about six years before I found out what a truly horrible whomwn she was….”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” I replied.

“Ya needn’t ta be.” He replied.  “Been married to the second one for neigh on twenty-six years with a passlte of kids too boot.” He said with a wink.

As we pulled into the airport, I asked if he had any recommendations on what to see in the South Isaldn,.

“Nay friend, I’ve never been there.  Gotten into enough trouble on this one.” He said with a laugh as he waved me out of the taxi with my bag in tow.

Soon, I was in the plane, taking off from Auckland and winging my way to Christchurch on a flight that cost me eighty-five New Zealand dollars…which was about ten dollars US…ok, in truth, about fifty dollars US…but still, cheap.

Especailly for what met me in the south island.

 A comment needs to be made at this point about the weather.

Like my expereince in Australia, the New Zealanders…er…sorry…the Kiwi’s continued to complain about how bad the weather was suppose to be.

“You picked a horrible time to visit New Zealand.” I heard from a Kiwi when they found out when I was visiting, “All it does it rain.” They imformed me solemnly.

Looking at the forcast, so it would appear.

That first day in Auckland, going up to the top of One Tree Hill on a day when the sky was a brilliant blue and the sun’s rays reached to all corners of the horizon, I thought that the Kiwi’s were being a little too critical of the weather.

Later in the afternoon, when the sun put on a brilliant display of colors as it set over the western horizon.  It still thought they were nuts.

“I thought you said it was going to rain?” I asked.

“Oh, it will.  Just wait!” My host replied.

And in the theory that if you wait long enough, anything will happen.  It was spitting down rain on us about midnight as we were leaving dinner with customers.

“You realized it took over twenty four hours for the rain to hit.” I commented solemnly.

“Well, then, I guess I was right.  It did rain.” Came the reply.

Friday dawned as I expected Thursday to start - thunderstorms.  Good old fashioned thunderstorms.  Not the rainstorms of Melbourne.  Real thunder.

This is where it got strange….

The sun came out.  Then it poured.  Then the sun came out.  Then it poured.  Then the sun came out.  Then it poured.  Then the sun came out.  Then it poured.  Then the sun came out.  Then it poured.  Then the sun came out.  Then it poured.  Then the sun came out.  Then it poured.  Then the sun came out.  Then it poured.  Then the sun came out.  Then it poured.  Then the sun came out.  Then it poured.  Then the sun came out.  Then it poured.  Then the sun came out.  Then it poured.  Then the sun came out.  Then it poured.  Then the sun came out.  Then it poured.

You get the picture.

 After a meeting, we took the car for a ride around the harbot, past the largest marina in the southern hemisphere (there is a reason that Auckland is refered to as the city of sail).  Past the harbor heads, the entrance to the harbor.  Past the islands  and the penisulas that jut out into the clear blue wanters of both of the bays and harbors that make up Aukland.

It was one of these penisulas, with a big hill on the end of it, that my guide and friend pointed out, “That was our last line of defense.”

“Your last line of defense against what?” I remarked.

“We were sure we were going to be invaded by the Japanese during World War II.  They fortified the harbor, but we feared it wasn’t enough, so we turned the hill into a fortress.  It is loaded with tunnels and pill boxes.  The kids love it on warm summers days, you can run around in them now.  Aside from a stray submarine or two, they never did come.” He said with a little pride in his voice.

Then we moved on towards One Tree Hill.

Well, there used to be a tree up there, held sacred by the first polynesian settlers and the Europeans alike.  But duringg the polynesian protests years ago one of them took a chain saw too the noble tree that sat uopon the barren hill.

Figuring if they , the first settlers couldn’t have the land and their sacred tree, no one would.

We entered the park, land that was once the ranch, sorry, the station, of one of the orginal settlers, a Scottsman named John Logan Campbell.  He had plans to build a palatial estate upon the hillside and went so far as to plant groves of olive trees around the sides of the hill, leaving the one lonely tree at the summit.

But it wasn’t too be.

Mr. Campbell soon realized that the city was growing so fast that his rural estate was soon going to be surrounded by city.

So on the occasion of the visit of the Duke and Duchess of Cornwall to Auckland (they were later known by their more popular titles…King Goerge V and Queen Mary…), he donated 120 hectares for a park named, of course, Cornwall Park.

He gave the part to the citizens of the city of Auckland, the country of New Zealand, and in honor of the royal crown.  And for his efforts, Mr. Campbell became Sir John Logan Campbell and was buried at the summit of the hill under an imposing oblisk that records his generosity for all posterity.

I want to believe that Mr. Campbell didn’t know the accolades that he was going to get.  But darn happy that he got them for his generosity.

The city has done a good job converting a farm into a, well, a farm with style.

Slowly, our car winds up the road to the summit.  Past walking trails, wooden rail fences, sheep and cattle.

Almost like you could have imagind it one hundred yearrs ago….

Except for the paved road, the lacro coverd runners and the electric fencing.

But otherwise, almost like you would have it seen it a hundred years ago….

Oh yes, and today it is surrounded by a city of over a million people and growing.

Eitherwayy, the lonely, windswept summit is something to behold, looking out over the grassy hillsides, the ancient volcanic craters, the grazing sheep and cattle, out beyondthe massive elmsand oaks from the station headquarters, out over the freeways and the city and suburbs to the vast blueness of the ocean.

‘One Tree Hill’ is a site indeed, U2 would think so if you saw it….

“We turn away to face the cold, enduring chill
As the day begs the night for mercy love
The sun so bright it leaves no shadows
Only scars
Carved into stone
On the face of earth
The moon is up and over One Tree Hill
We see the sun go down in your eyes”

• - Lyrics from U2’s Song, ‘One Tree Hill’ written in honor of an assistant from New Zealand who died in a motorcycle accident\

 Meat, fruit and veggies?

They have a strict quarantine laws, not wanting to introduce any more exotic species then they already have, they would prefer to keep out things like fruit flies and mosquitoes///things that I applaud them on.

But I was surprised to see the officer and beagle made a bee line for me!

“Sir do you have anything in your bag?” The officer asked as the beagle tried to nose his way in.

“No ma’am.” I replied with all sincerity.

“Mind if I check?” She asked as I opened it up for her to look at.

There was nothing.

“Do you bring your lunch to work in that bag?” She asked.

“Yes ma’am.” I said.  Apples today.”

“Ah, no worries.  The old boy is just a little bored tonight as she fished a treat out and feed the beagle.  Then they were on their way.

Getting my bag (well, getting it out of the hand of the guy that tried to take it off the baggage carousel (”Soory, thought it was mine.” Was the reply) and a full bag x-ray and inspection later…as well as another going over by another beagle, and I was underway…

And what should greet me on my way to the taxi rank?

About a dozen of the most beautiful women I’ve seen….

Trying hard to cover my gawking, a guy in the cash machine line in front of me said simply, “models.  Photo shot in New Zealand.”

He could have simply said…Welcome to New Zealand….

Business brought me to the north island, Auckland.  Luckily for me, my host was a proud Kiwi, and his office looks out to one of the most recognizable of Auckland’s landmarks, the famous One Tree /Hill.

The view is striking, though I’ll admit, even I didn’t know how famous it was until it was explained that this was the “one Tree Hill” that Bono and his band U2 so famously sang about.

And luckily for me, I was also going to get a chance to see it.

 I will admit, I made some New Zealand jokes, and the Australians ate them up.  But I found it curious when the tables were turned…

“I’m going to the Australian capital on Wednesday.” I’d comment.

“Really?  Canberra?” Would come the reply.

“No, Auckland.” I’d reply.

This was met with cold silence.

“They just don’t like to admit that New Zealand has three main islands…The North Island, the South Island, and the West Island…which happens to also be called Australia.” A New Zealand friend informed me.

But as humble and down to earth as most of the Kiwis (how the New Zealanders and seemingly the world refers to them) or the Wookies (as my traveling companion, co-worker and friend Melvin likes to refer to them), they do get excited when describing their homeland.  There are a lot of Kiwi’s in Australia, but all are more than happy to describe the beauty of their home country, let you know what sights to see.  Help you plan out a route to take.

An expected five minute conversation with one Kiwi turned into a forty-five minute session on which route we should take, all done with the care and consideration of a trained tour guide.

Then there was the business at hand.  Business.  It was business bringing me to Auckland, and our original plan was to tool around the north island for the long, Queen’s birthday weekend.

My friend in Auckland gave me a list of things to see and do on the North Island, the perfect drives, the perfect sights.

“Do you want my real advice?” My business contact in Auckland said with all seriousness.

“Yes, absolutely!” I replied enthusiastically.

“Skip the North Island.  When we are done, fly right into Christ Church, get a car and drive.” He said.  “With the short time you have, see the South Island.  If you get a chance, you can come back to the north.

So that is exactly what we did.

But first I had to get there.

The flight into Auckland was uneventful, if a little long by Australian standards at a little over four hours.

Getting off the plane, you realized you were in a different country…mainly because of the immigration officials waiting for us at the end of the ramp.  I wasn’t looking forward to standing in long lines, though the plane was only half full, I still envisioned long lines to get the passport stamped and questions answered.

I was pleasantly surprised as they had more than enough officials to get us through without hardly standing in line.

Then it was just on to get my bag.

And even that wasn’t much of a wait.  I made it up to the baggage claim just in time to have the quarantine officer come out with their smart nosed beagle checking for drugs, illicit pills, meat, fruit, and vegetables.

 Rhubarb.  Who ever thought of eating rhubarb?  Can you imagine that first person - how hungry they had to have been?

“Hey, this looks like a young cocklebur plant, or maybe a pig weed.  Anybody hungry?”

And let’s face it, rhubarb; especially the green stuff is tart.  Pucker you lips to a point where you face my suck in tart.  But mothers being mothers could take this tart plant and make magic.

Growing up on the northern plains, rhubarb was the first fruit (or is it a vegetable?) to emerge in the spring, sometimes with snow on the ground, the first sign of green in the yard were the first leafy shoots of the two rhubarb plants poking through the warming earth into the ever persistent spring sunshine.

Which meant that inevitably, rhubarb became the first fruit of summer.

Usually early June, Mom would go out and pluck the first shoots.  Bringing them into the house and cleaning them, taking the tops off, trimming off the bottom and making sure that she kept the leaves separate from the normal compost and rubbish that got dumped into the pasture by the slough.

“Those leaves might kill the cattle.  Make sure you keep it away from the pasture.” We were told.

As tart, as sour, as horrible as raw rhubarb tasted, we all looked on longing and never questioned mom’s instructions.  For we knew her ability to work miracles with the stuff.

Usually the first thing that we enjoyed was rhubarb sauce.  A concoction of rhubarb, last year’s strawberries (to help clean out the freezer), banana’s (over ripe and bought at discount from the grocer in town), and sugar.

When combined, it was pure heaven.  Mix in some fresh cream skimmed off the bulk tank or maybe over some ice cream and it was the perfect combination of taste, tangy and sweet.

Then there was her cake.  Or cakes rather.

The first one, and I think the easier was the standard cake with rhubarb cooked throughout the cake.  Combined with cinnamon, it was a tasty treat anytime, but especially warm and straight from the oven.  It was hard to time the baking just right to coincide with a meal, but usually, especially in June when we were making fences, hauling away winter’s manure, and doing other jobs around the farm, a little lunch before evening milking would be especially welcome if it was mixed with warm rhubarb cake.

But perhaps the piece de resistance was the rhubarb upside-down cake.

The world may never know how Mom accomplished this tasty treat.  I’ve not had one since she passed away and attempts by any of us to describe it have been met with blank faces, stares, and looks like my family are slightly off our rockers to assume that anything sounding so good made out of something that simple could be that darn good.

In short, it was a thick jello and rhubarb mixture, combined with a moist white cake.  When baked, the jello/rhubarb mixture was on the bottom, then flipped over when served. It.  Was.  Good.  So simple.  So good.

Unfortunately, or fortunately perhaps, rhubarb was short lived.  Attention swung towards the other summer delicacies, strawberries, fresh peas and beans, peaches and pears, corn on the cob, but as much as we hated the taste of raw rhubarb, I think we all still looked forward to those June days when the first tart taste of summer was made, seemingly magically, deliciously sweet.

 From the time I was a freshman at North Dakota State in Fargo…until I moved to Australia six seven months ago, there were two roads that my car, and my body could negotiate almost by themselves.

The first was the back roads that lead from Fargo to Mahnomen.

The second, the road that lead from Mahnomen to Minneapolis/St. Paul.  It was this road that I started driving during my FFA days.  Taking me to meetings, camps and conferences.  Taking me to visit friends and family.  Taking me to visit girls, see concerts, and explore the world.

After my time at Nnorth Dakota State, I used that road as the jumping off point.  It was the first two hundred and fifty miles on the seven-hundred and fifty mile trip to the University of Illinois in Champaign.  Still, once a month, I made that trip.  For two summers as an intern, I made that trip every week.  When my job took me to Minneapolis, I took that trip back and forth.

And it was a trip steeped in tradition.

As I was watching the local news in Australia Saturday morning, the news that Minnesota - my home state - had been struck by tornado’s was like an electrical shock.  Names of towns and villages that were part of my normal route, part of the landscape and countryside - were mentioned.  Some of them seemingly blown away.

The pictures and images of Wadena, MN.  The little town of 4000 people on the otherside of the world where I’m living, was my stopping point.  How many times did I stop for gas, or for a Mountian Dew for the road.  In bad weather, it would provide a stopping off point, a respite in the storm.  I saw the changes too.  When the Amoco turned to a BP.  The gas wars between the BP and the Holiday.  On more then one weekend, the town provided a chance to stop and stretch my legs.

In many ways, it was the half way point to getting home.

The sight of the destruction and devastation was heart wrenching.

I called family and friends to make sure that all was well.  My brother John talked at length.  The storm had touched down only miles from his little town.  Hitting turkey barns and toppling massive trees, and houses and farmsteads.

He told tales of the highway departments getting the snowplows out, to clear the road of debris.  Pieces of houses, branches, even tombstones ripped from the once quiet cemetaries.

In my mind, I pictured the hundreds of people that waited on me in the gas stations, that greeted me as I waited in line, that waved at me through their windsheilds.  Their lives turned to tumult.

But in their misery, they also hung onto what they hold dear.  Reading the news reports, they exhibited a sense of humor, a sense of belief in bigger things, and a passion to build their town and make it better then before.

This isn’t the first disaster to hit a small town.  But as Wadena and Mentor and the dozens of other towns throughout Minnesota weep, mourn, and rebuild, I hope they know while the buildings may be damaged and destroyed, the sense of community, of love of neighbor is probably stronger then ever.  Regardless if those neighbors are next door…or on the other side of the world.  Thoughts and prayers are with them.