Going to Kindergarten was scary.

First of all, it was a change from the routine.  Oh, sure, I was surrounded by kids my own age, and Mrs. Tomhave was a great teacher (kind, easy going, but you knew she was in charge) but still, it was change.

First of all, I was away from Mom and Dad.  Gone were the times of breakfast with Dad at the table with a little bacon and a little eggs.  Now it was oatmeal with the big boys before school with raisins and sugar.  It was good to be grown up like my older brothers, but part of me still wanted to be a kid.

Second, I’m a nervous pee’er.  All of a sudden, instead of doing my business in a gutter in the barn, out in the woods, or by myself in the bathroom, I was expected to use a urinal surrounded by a bunch of strangers.  That is terrifying.

Third, coloring.  At home, I was an expert.  A box in us boy’s bedroom attested to this.  I could draw a combine, a tractor, a manure spreader, a cow, a chicken, a barn, and a fine stick figure family portrait complete with brother John picking his nose (this didn’t endear me to him) like nobody’s business.  But all of a sudden I was expected to color inside the lines of butterflies, and flowers and was expected to use a variety of colors and styles, as long as I stayed inside the lines.  Come on, at home, I drew the lines.

Fourth, milk and crackers.  OK, I’m sorry people, but milk doesn’t come out of a cardboard box.  Milk, also, shouldn’t taste like wax.  I remember the first time I tried to open a carton of milk, I absolutely slaughtered it.  I opened it complete from the top.  The other kids also gave me a strange look when I shook it, “Why are you doing that?” they asked with curiousity.  “To mix in the cream.” I replied.  Their eyes glazed over.  Milk comes out of cows and cream seperates out to the top people.  Was true then.  Still true today.

I’m not saying that school was all that bad, surely, there was some good things too.

Story time was necessary.  After lunch, we would all gather in a corner of the class room, after recess, and Mrs. Tomhave would read some great tale for us.  Sometimes it was a continuation of the story from the day before, sometimes it was a new story that ended that day.  It always opened up a new world for us.

Naptime was perfect.  At least one a day, Mrs. Tomhave would have us get the matts out of the corner and spread the floor, usually after story time and right before milk and crackers.  We would lay on the matts quietly while Mrs. Tomhave would watch over us from the safety of her desk.  If I where her, I’d have had a flask.  Work places should still have this in operation (the nap…and maybe the flask…).

Finally, it provided us with some social skills.  Growing up on the farm with a strict hierarchy with three older brothers, it gave me a good chance to see how social interactions should work, suddenly, I wasn’t the little brother, I was the kid that was slow to anger but could beat the crap out of you if I had too.  Which wasn’t a bad label.  These simple social skills would be built upon as we moved up and out into the world of higher education.

Yes, while I missed the safety of home, kindergarten was sign that I’d made it out of the stage of my life, unfortunately, it meant drinking warm 2% milk out of a carton.

 Labor Day was bittersweet day back on the farm.

On the one hand, another summer of sun, rain, haying, harvesting, checking fence, heat, humidity, cleaning, painting, field work, mowing, gardening, and other miscellaneous chores were done for another year.  The days of hard labor on the farm were, for all intents and purposes, behind us for another year.

On the other hand, school, books, classes, bullies, grades, teachers, were in front of us with the normal chores of feeding cows, youngstock, milking cows, and the normal fall chores of chopping corn, cleaning out the garden, and in general, getting ready for winter was right in front of us.

And as much as we probably complained about it, the labor of the farm was probably the lessor of the stresses.  The social pressures of school were by far the biggest.

As a youngin, back on the farm, I could remember looking forward, with some excitement but some apprehension the start of the school year, especially after older brother Jaime started.

On the one hand, I’d be missing my older brother and constant playmate.  As much as Jaime and I would fight and argue, we were brothers and while we would (all through high school…) beat the living crap out of each other at the drop of a hate, we were also the first ones to jump to each other’s defence.

On the other hand, I’d be having my folks all to myself.  I could wake up as the other kids were coming in from chores, sit down and watch Captain Kangaroo and Sesame Street, have breakfast with Dad when he came in from chores in the morning (bacon and eggs).

Those days, in the late 1970’s were some stressful ones on the farm, and though I was young, I can remember sitting in the living room, watching television while my folks had some heated discussions about the farm and finances….and when the conversation would get heated, I remember them stopping.

After a minute or two, I’d get up to make sure that my folks were still in the kitchen and hadn’t left me alone in the house….

Only to walk in on them….horrors of horrors…KISSING!

This scared my childhood.  As I ran back into the living room expressing my extreme displeasure (EEEEEEEEEEWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW)….My parents laughed. 

Granted, I wasn’t home alone.  Oh sure, I had Margaret at home, but she was still in the crib and couldn’t quite understand the intricacies of Mr Rogers or Reading Rainbow.  And there was the daily ritual of naptime, usually falling asleep on Dad’s lap after lunch (Dad’s rule for farm safety - work like heck, but always take an hour off for lunch…and part of that was a nap).

There was something so normal, so comforting, so safe about being home in the confines of the farm.  Watching the simple television, sleeping on Dad’s lap, having Mom there to kiss my owies when I’d fall down while playing outside.

But I think like every kid, I knew that there was more out there too.

 The Minnesota State Fair is a grand tradition.  Sitting in the hustle and bustle of the cities, sits acres of farm fields.  Plots of soybeans, corn, and the left over stubble of wheat, barley and oats sit on the outskirts of the University of Minnesota’s St. Paul’s campus.

The campus itself is impressive.   The tall patch of buildings sits on the edge of the fields, like a castle on a hill.  Along one third of the campus sits the suburb of Falcon Heights, along another third other side lay the fields.  Along the other third, lies the home of the Minnesota State Fair.

The Minnesota State Fair has a storied history.  Countless celebrities have walked the grounds.  Every governor has used it as a place to meet and greet.  Politicians, athletes, singers, actors, and a whole host of people.

The buildings have stories too.

The grandstand, sight of hundreds of shows, races, and the slightly bizarre (steam train demolition derby).  It was the sight of Teddy Roosevelt’s famous speak (speak softly, but carry a big stick).

The barns, are institution on the sight, and in the state.  Indeed, the livestock show at the Minnesota State Fair remains one of the largest in the country and in the world.  They house thousands of animals (rotated three times during the two week fair) and have housed tens of thousands of young men and women.  Most of the 4-H’ers and FFA’ers showing are housed in the barns themselves, in huge upstairs bunk rooms that stretch the length and breadth of the barn.  At one point, they had old army surplus bunks stacked up to four or five high. When safety inspectors would come through, they would meticulously look through the showing areas to make sure people were safe…never thinking to look upstairs.  Then, one day (recently) an inspector happened to ask to see it and about had a heart attack.  Bunks are now limited to two high.

The 4-H building, a WPA project, has been the center of education on the fair.  Countless ribbons, rewards, and perhaps the most priceless gift, life-long friendships were earned and awarded inside the confines of that big old building.  Painted with milk based paint, true to form of a WPA project - trying to help dairy farmers as well as put people to work - the only problem, it is impossible to paint over, so while the building still shines white in the late August and early September sunshine, no trim, no logo, no scratch of the surface will change (and that’s probably a good thing).

There are countless other buildings too - the FFA Children’s barn, the DNR booth, the Coliseum, the Epiphany Dining Hall, that all have been around for a long, long, long time - and all have a story behind them as they have helped build the Minnesota State Fair to what it is today.

But it is the personal stories too - seeing Brooks and Dunn in concert for the first time at the Grandstands with fellow FFA’ers, and going back years later with my brother to see Weird Al, going through the 4-H Building with cousin Pat that first year to the fair, sleeping up in the barns (bottom of four bunks), announcing the pig and sheep shows, eating kolaches and drinking 50c all you could drink milk for breakfast, enjoying cheese curds, animal races in the Children’s Barnyard, trying to figure out what to do with the PETA protestors that would stop by to sing their protest songs (which the crowd always thought were just part of the act), meeting, catching up with, and random chance encounters with friends that have been made over the years.

Yup, the Minnesota State Fair is a piece of history - for our nation, for our state, and for each individual whose life has been touched by a little state fair magic.

 There were only three things that would make things grind to halt on the farm, relatives from overseas (happened only once in history), strawberry picking (happened every June) and sweet corn season.

Usually every summer, late July or early August, Mom would make the announcement that the sweet corn was ready.

Not that it was any surprise, the signs were usually on the table for the week before it happened.  The wave of corn, usually starting with some smaller ears first for supper, would give way to an avalanche of corn on the table, darn near for every meal.

Not that I think any of us minded.

On the chosen day, usually one that was too wet to work in the fields, we would do chores and get the equipment ready for the next foray into the fields as Mom prepared the kitchen for the onslaught that was sure to come.

The first corn was usually picked before dinner (as we called the noon meal on the farm), placed in the either the wagon (when we were little) or into the wheelbarrow and taken up to the house.  Us boys and Dad would go to work husking the corn and talking about the weather, crops, and the year that raccoons picked all of Grandma’s corn.

“Should have had a dog.” Dad said shaking his head, looking appreciatively at our dogs, Puppy and Lady, who, while perhaps not the best trained dogs, could sure keep the raccoons away.

After a hearty meal of some meat and as much sweet corn as we could eat, the dishes were quickly done and the kitchen transformed into a veritable assembly line of sweet corny goodness.

Us younger kids were set to the garden to pick and husk as much corn as we could - we had to be careful to only get the ripe ears, the still immature ears would serve as food for the coming weeks…even the onslaught of freezing day wasn’t enough to deter us from that mouth watering goodness.  The husks were carted off down to the cattle in the small feedlot off the side of the barn, where they munched on them with vigor - happy for the treat.

Inside, usually one of the older kids were cleaning the corn, getting the silks off, cutting off the wormy parts, and washing the corn in a tub of clean water.

Mom was working away over the stove, with the big pot boiling away, taking the clean corn, leaving it sit until it was done (about 10 minutes), and making sure that the rest of the assembly line was moving smoothly, from garden to freezer.

Usually Dad and one of the older kids were sitting at the table, each with a cake pan, cutting the corn off the cob.  The corn falling off in thick slabs into the pan.  There are few things better in this world than taking a slab of luke warm sweet corn out of a pan and eating it right off the cobb.  Dad would hate this as it was seen as a waste of his hard work…but boy did it taste good.

From the cake pans, the corn would be placed in a big bowl to make sure that it cooled, and in between making sure that the corn was getting in from the garden, washed properly, husked disposed of, cutting corn off the cob, making sure that pans were emptied regularly, she also parcelled out the corn into sandwich baggies and prepared them for freezing.  Each baggy holding a pint of corn.  Each baggy a part of a meal for the long winter ahead.

The most fun job of the day was disposing of the corn cobs.  These would be taken out in between trips to the garden, usually by Jaime and myself and thrown into the woods or the slough.

But they were more than just thrown.

They became the ammunition.  We would take turns with the wash tub of corn cobs throwing them as fast as we could, timing each other and watching for both distance, accuracy, and speed.  Or else, if the pace was less hurried, we would just go for distance or accuracy, aiming at some branch, rock, or stump.

Usually, Mom was left for mop up operations - the final cutting, labelling, and freezing.  We were all anxious for the final tally which was usually pronounced at supper late that evening.

“Well, we got 112 pints done today.” Mom would declare (that being a very good year).

None of us would say anything, only nodding in appreciation.  That would sustain not only us, but Grandma and a few other friends and relatives through the winter.  That corn would come out at Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter.

And Mom always found a way to make sure there were some good slabs of corn sitting in a bowl in the freezer….that never seemed to make it past breakfast the next morning…

 Mom would usually do the first round of weeding in our garden herself.  Making her way up and down the rows, making sure that the plants (the right ones) were not crowded out by the weeds.  The carrots and beets were the hardest for us kids.  How she could make out the rows when the plants were nothing more than a green spot on the ground was beyond us.

Once the rows were clearly discernible, it was time to fire up the tiller.

Every year, we would pull the old tan tiller out of the shop into the light of the late spring sunshine, where Dad would remind us in reverent tones, that this tiller belong to our grandfather.  He bought it new.  He had been proud of this tiller.  This was the family tiller.  Then he would spent the next three hours working on the darn thing to get it started.

What I heard every time that I heard that speech was, “This tiller is old.  This tiller is very old.  Your grandfather bought it cheap.  He bought it cheap because it was a piece of crap then.  It is still a piece of crap.  It will remain a piece of crap.  Your grandfather suffered with this.  Your older brothers suffered with this.  You will be forced to suffer with this.  I hope your shoulders are ready for the mechanical beating that they are about to subjected too.”

I will admit, perhaps the old tan Lawn Boy garden tiller meant different things to different people.  Perhaps to my father it was a link to his past, where for me, it was a link to pain and suffering.

Once we got the tiller going, it was up to us boys for the balance of the summer to make sure that the space in between the rows were always properly worked.  The weeds between the rows had to be controlled to make sure that the moisture and sunlight went to where it was needed.  A week or two of neglect and it would seem like you had pig weeds that were trying to morph into small shrubs.  How pigeon grass can grow as fast as it does in the spring is darn near miraculous, in a negative sense.

So about once a week, we would fight to get the darn tiller started (”You boys know that the tiller doesn’t like to start when she’s cold.”) After fighting with it for a while, we would usually get her to cough and sputter to life, complete with a big cloud of blue smoke that would follow you for the rest of the afternoon.

At least we didn’t have to worry about mosquito’s.

When the tiller worked like it should, it was beautiful to behold.  It would slowly eat through the dark Minnesota soil, churning through the dirt and ripping up the weeds, leaving a dark mallow path behind her. 

When she didn’t work like she should, it was dangerous to any living thing that was within a three foot radius.  She would jump and jerk.  If the soil was too soft, she would just stay put regardless how much adjusting you did, and you would have to push her through the ground like an ornery mule.  If the soil was too hard, she would bounce and jerk across the ground.  It was a bit like tying four very big and very angry tom cats in front of you, while fighting, and trying to get them through the garden without damaging yourself, or anything else in their path.  The tiller would jump, sputter, jerk, shimmy, and bounce across the landscape.  It was pure bone jarring misery.

The problem was, most of the time, the garden had patches of all three of these areas at once…and I’ll tell you right now, it sure seemed like there was a lot more of the hard soil then the other two.

If it ever got to be too much, you’d have to shut her down and take a break, giving your arms, shoulders, and teeth a rest (for the next hour, your entire upper body would continue to shake), then you have to start all over again…including the fight to get her started (Dad: “You kids should know that thing doesn’t like to start when she’s warm”).

We eventually inherited our other grandfather’s tiller, a bigger model that started easier and jerked less.  That Dad gave away after a couple of years.

I think my Dad put it this way: “Your other grandpa’s tiller is almost fifty years old now…we can’t let it win now.”

 We had a big garden.  It was a constant source of food for the family, year round, thanks to the marvels of canning and freezing.  It was also a constant source of work.  Any free time, and even when there wasn’t free time, we were expected to spend some time in the garden.

In the spring, every evening for a week or two in the evenings, before supper and homework but after milking, when Dad was usually out planting the wheat or barley, we boys were expected to be helping Mom plant as well.

Proper seed bed preparation was important.  It usually required a couple of scoops of well aged cow manure from a pile in the feedlot or the pasture - some left over pile a couple of years old.  Then it was worked into the garden with the help of a neighbors big tractor mounted rotary tiller - one that could work it up good and deep.

Seed bed preparation was important, and it was a big job, mainly because the garden was big.  It had to be.  It was expected to feed our family of seven (Mom, Dad, and us five kids), but also grandparents and a smattering of other people around the neighborhood.  No excess would go to waste…but if we were ever short, it could spell some trouble (as Dad used to say, the crop could fail, but the garden and the cows would make sure that we never went hungry).

In the cool spring evenings, we would plant rows of beets, carrots, radishes, and a small patch of dill.  Mom would soak the peas and beans overnight, to break through the hard shell, and then those would go in the ground too.  Usually a couple of different types of onions would make it in (whites, red, and spring onions).  Corn, provided by the Pioneer dealer that Dad bought his field corn from was one of the largest sections.  Potatoes, usually cut up from last years crop, were also planted.

On the end closest to the house would go hills of cucumbers.  Usually about a dozen seeds per hill.  On the far end were planted the other hills - a few squash, a few pumpkin, a few gourds, a few watermelon.

The last thing to go in the ground were the plants.  In the short growing season, some of the best loved plants needed a bit of head start, so Mom would go to one of the local greenhouses and buy plants that were started in the greenhouse about a month or two before the last frost date.  A dozen or more tomatoes, about a dozen of each cauliflower and cabbage, and a few cherry tomatoes and ground cherries.

In the end, the garden was packed, and once it was planted, for the next week or two, we all did the same thing.

We watch, and we waited.

You couldn’t go in and pick out the weeds until you could make out the plants.  You couldn’t till either, because even though a string and measuring stick were used to make sure that the rows were straight and evenly spaced, the rows were usually straighter then we could drive the darn tiller.

So we waited until we could start to see the straight lines of green poking up through the ground.

Then the next round of work would begin.  Weeding.

 I love home.  The flat land of northern Minnesota, right on the edge of Red River Valley.  There is something about the hot humid summers and the bitter cold, snowy winters.  It makes a man a man.  It makes you appreciate life.  It makes you appreciate the Blessing of family and friends.

My life, my personality, has been forged there.  The story of my life is woven in the land where I worked the land, herded cows, watched my mother and grandparents buried, held my godsons as they were baptized, where I scraped my knees.

But my life has also been forged in my travels.  In my youth, I checked out every book in the community library about other countries.  My folks had a bit of a traveling bug - my Dad spending time in the army during the Korean War and my mother being happy to tell us stories about her trip to Canada so long ago.

I’ve been lucky enough to travel too.  I can tell you the first time I rode an escalator.  The first time that I’ve seen the ocean.  The first time I left Minnesota or North Dakota.  Seeing the world is still a bit surreal.  My passport has the stamp of over a dozen countries, and sometimes I have to pinch myself when I realize that I’m living on the far side of the world.

Part of living overseas is the benefit of seeing and experiencing different things and different people.  Say what you will about Australia, but it is in many ways, not at all like home. The animals, the landscape, the cities and towns are very different then those that I grew up with.

But in many ways, it is also very similar.  Especially the people.  It consistently amazes me that regardless where I go in the world, the people are genuinely good.  The country changes, the politics change, the economy changes, but everywhere I’ve been, each place has their fair share of good people.  There are going to be people that don’t like you.  But for every one that hates you, there is a host that enjoy what you bring.

To be clear - there are very good people here.

Regardless where you go, the culture is going to be different, but different doesn’t mean bad.  It forces people to view the world, their lives, and their place in it in a different light.  It forces people to open their minds, open their views, and open their hearts…or to close them down and become bitter.

For the last ten months, I’ve lived in Australia.  I’ve enjoyed the experience.  For regular readers, they know that I’ve written volumes about the experience.  And that I’ve enjoyed it.

My time here is not done.  There is a host of things that I would like to accomplish personally and professionally.  As much as I miss my family and my friends, today, this is where I belong.

Recently, I had a very difficult choice to make - I had a host of options in front of me, most of which that would lead me closer to home…some that would, for a time, leave me far away.

I chose, for the time being, the one farther away.

For those that haven’t guessed, I’ve committed to staying here in Australia for the next year or two.  I’ve got a fair amount to grow, a fair amount to develop, a fair amount to learn.  I will miss my family and friends, but this isn’t permanent.  It is only one more step in this pilgrimage we call life.

 One of my nieces pointed out that children need a minimum of twelve hours of sleep a night.

I laughed.

“No Uncle Mark.  I’m serious.  It’s true.” She replied with near deathly seriousness.

Like a good uncle, I then, to the delight of her father, my brother, regaled her with a story from our youth….

“You know, back when your Dad and I were kids, we felt lucky to get seven hours of sleep.  Heck, if we wanted a social life on the weekends, we were lucky to get five.

In July and August especially it was a busy time back on the farm.  We were combining, baling hay, baling straw, milking cows, checking fence, and just the normal things that needed to be done around the farm.”

Both of my nieces rolled their eyes.

“Sure, we’d still milk the cows about six o’clock every night and finish by seven thirty or so, isn’t that about right?” I’d look to my brother.

He nodded.

“Yessir, finish milking about seven-thirty, and there was enough light, we would head back out for another load of straw, or hay, or grain if Dad was still out combining, or else, if the field work was done, we’d go to the garden to hoe, till, or just pull weeds.” I’d carefully explain to my nieces.

They both let out a long sigh.

“Yup, so with the end of day light, oh, say about nine thirty, we’d head into the house.  Mom would have a full meal for us.  Meat, potatoes, vegetables, the whole lot.  But do you think we were done?” I’d ask, knowing the answer.

Silent stares greeted my brother and me.

“As a family, we would go to the living room, one by one, taking turns in the shower, washing the dust and grim of the farm off, while the rest of the family took in the new and weather.  We learned about the world, politics, and followed the Twins (my nieces being Twins fans, I figured this would increase their interest…it didn’t).  The weather would tell us what our chores for the next couple of days would be.”

“Then, then - do you think we were done?  No.  As a family, we’d watch MASH, or later on, Cheers.  Good, wholesome shows about life.  If we were lucky when watching MASH, Dad would take a minute or two and explain life in Korea back when he was in the war.  And we liked it.”

My nieces looked at us, either unbelieving or uncaring.

“We all went to bed after that.  It was after eleven o’clock.  And you know what, at five thirty the next morning, Dad would yell up at us ‘Boys!  Time to do chores!’ And we would go and start the day all over again.”

“Are you done yet?” One of my nieces pleaded.

“No.  Let’s do the math.  That is less than seven hours.  Isn’t that less than seven hours?” I ask my brother who nods in agreement.

“And we liked it!” I exclaimed.

“That’s fine.” My youngest niece exclaimed.  “But now you’re old.  Can we go to the beach?”

Kids now a days.  No respect.  Maybe they need less sleep.

 I’ll admit, I’ve traveled a bit, I’ve lived around the United States, and now can say around the world.

Cuba, Canada, Malaysia, Korea, Australia, New Zealand, Switzerland, Italy, France, England are all stamped on my passport…and now living and working for an extended period down under…

I’ve lived in Minnesota, North Dakota, Illinois, Kansas, Ohio, and have traveled extensively through most of the Midwest and California.  Call me a rambling man if you’d like, call me a well traveled farm boy.  With it all, there is a fair amount of windshield time, a fair amount of time watching the scenery and listening to the radio.

Call it preferential, call it home town bias, but nowhere is there a station quite like KFGO.

KFGO, the Mighty 790, the voice of the Red River Valley based in Fargo, North Dakota is hands down the best radio station I’ve experienced in, not only the United States, but now, can say, world over.

Growing up, milking cows, I don’t know that we ever quite realized what we had listening to Tom and Larry in the morning.  News, markets, weather, sports updates, outdoor news, and some good country music thrown in, mix that with national news at the top of the hour, local news at the bottom, and in my younger years, Paul Harvey…and in later news Charles Osgood, and you have about everything that you needed in a good radio station.

That old AM radio in the barn rafters was hard to tune, not that we would have to adjust it, as long as it was on KFGO, there was no need to change the station.

You can keep your WDAY’s, WCCO’s, WHO’s, or WILL’s - keep your KIGS, KNSS, WHIO, WSHY and KFI and KNX - they do ok, but they can’t compete with the wit of Tom and Larry, the weather of Terry Spies, the news of Don Heney, the traffic (in Fargo?  Traffic?) of Dan Wright or the sports of Mike McFeely (special delivery?) - and the ag marketing guru of Larry (of the infamous…they aren’t just famous…they are IN famous…Tom and Larry in the morning).

At night, our cows were lulled to sleep by Don Hall, and later, Bob Harris and slowly waken by the melodic voice and feisty banter of the morning show.  While I don’t know what the cows thought, they sure seemed to give more milk.

On vacations, traveling back to the farm, when most people would be sleeping in, I’d make sure that I’d be up early, because even though the cows were gone, the folks at KFGO were still on the radio, and like good friends, they were there to greet me in the morning, and like good friends, they would fill me in on the latest happenings, while still connecting me to my past.

Oh sure, there have been some tough times too that they helped to see me through - there were the floods, the first in 1997, then 2008, when I was only a visitor and a volunteer, not living through the disaster.

There were the fun times - the Rally to Twin Valley and the Fling to Flom, the Twins wins in 1987 and 1991. 

There were the times that they disappointed me…Ed Schulz and every University of North Dakota game that they broadcast.

Some of the voices change, but some stay the same - Tom and Larry are still there, Jack and Sandy are still over the noon hour, Terry Spies still updates the weather.  And though I’m living on the far side of the world, in the land of koala’s and kangaroo’s, through the wonders of the world wide web…when I’m feeling a little homesick, or feeling a little blue, KFGO is broadcasting on through - and in some ways, they are even better, especially since they are no long home of the Sioux….

That’s right - the Mighty 790 is back as the radio home of the Mighty Thundering Herd….

And all seems once again right with the world.  As my father would say, “Ya, that KFGO, they aren’t so bad.”

And there is very little higher praise then that don’t ya know.

 OK!  OK!  I’ll admit it…I took a vacation.  My intent was to keep the website updated…needless to say, that didn’t happen.  Not even an update on what was happening, or where I was.

The calls and emails can stop.  I’m back.

My family was down visiting, and while I’m a bit delinquent…and I haven’t posted in a while (badumpbump)…I’ve also got a good passel of stories and memories to share and update, along with a little news this week.

For the readers of the abroad section…I’m now even farther behind, so as the weeks go on, expect even more updates, and some darn good pictures.