I don’t remember where I saw the first one, it might have been at the annual MCCL craft sale which we always went to for dinner in early November to support a good cause.  Mom might have brought the first one home and said to us, “You boys could do this.”  Regardless how it started, it was with Mom and Dad’s encouragement and a little initiative on our own that we got into the wooden reindeer production business.At the start, it started as a brotherly business, but my older brother got sick of it pretty quickly, and soon I was on the path to fame and fortune alone in making my wooden reindeer.

They were a pretty simple design.  You needed to cut out four pieces of wood.  The first was the body - from head to tail.  The second was a set of antlers, which set into a groove at the top of the head.  The third and fourth were identical, they were the front and rear leg, the body was grooved to fit for that too, so that when it was done, you had a reindeer with antlers that could stand on its own two legs.

It was cut out of a one by eight piece of lumber.  Dad’s old skill saw worked, though not perfectly.  Like a real reindeer, some of these would have some imperfections.

But once they were traced, cut out, and assembled, I have to say, they looked pretty good.  The first pass, I made five of the little critters with grand plans to make them first as gifts for my grade school teacher, and to some of the aunts and uncles.  Everyone liked a homemade gift.

And in the back of my mind, everyone likes a homemade gift to buy too…I’D BE RICH!

But with most things, there was a catch, and controversy ensued - how to finish them.  It became a family dispute.  Stain?  Varnish?  Paint?  Stain, varnish, AND paint?  Ribbon?  Are they all stained the same color?

Everyone had a different opinion, and it paralyzed progress.  Everyone wanted a say in how the reindeer would be finished, even though no one else was doing the work.

In the end, it was agreed to wait…until after the holidays to decide.  There was too much going on.

That was the death knell for the wooden reindeer.  Who wants a wooden reindeer in January?

Quietly, I packed away the wooden reindeer until, “After the holidays.”  After the holidays came and went, they reindeer are still packed away in that same box, moving with me several times now.  Still paralyzed by the thought of how they should be finished.

There is an important lesson to be learned by the reindeer in the box.  In the end, it didn’t matter how they were finished.  If it was stain, or varnish, or paint, the important thing is that they were finished - that the job was done, then it could be evaluated.  There isn’t always a perfect answer - and everyone wants a say.

There is an old saying that a statue is never built to a committee, well, you can add to it, a reindeer never flies by Christmas if everyone wants a say.

It is amazing that some of the same iconic Christmas cartoons have been playing for over fifty years.  The artistry, the animation might be something from out of the past, but the stories, the message must live on with kids, regardless how young or old they are.And there are some classics out there.  Back in the 1980’s, there was an explosion of Christmas cartoons.  Some of them very good, some of them so bad, they were good, most that got bogged down in their pop culture past and smaltzy message.

There is almost nothing that compares to the Charlie Brown Christmas Special - one that even my folks would strive to watch.  It was entertaining, but also sparked a simple message of truth.  One that still today, in a world of increasing political correctness and less religious significance, still manages to resonate.

Then there is the purely secular Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer.  The classic tale of misfits and outcasts that save the day and helps the very people that reject them.  A Christmas classic born from a Gene Autry Christmas hit - and one of the few one hour television cartoons that survives today.

Dr. Suess has his say too - with the now classic “Grinch” - the green monster that can’t understand how he could steal all the trappings of Christmas and yet find that Christmas joy comes anyway.  Whose heart grows ten times that Christmas Day.

There were a couple of lesser known classics that are harder to find on the television today.  Tales like Frosty the Snowman and his magic hat and his habit of saying “Happy Birthday” every time it was placed on his head and the magic of a Christmas snow.  Or the classic Walt Disney rendition of “The Christmas Carol,” with Scrooge McDuck as the protagonist being visited by the ghosts of Christmas Past, Present, and Future.  I have to publicly say that I believe that Goofy’s performance as Scrooge’s dead partner Marley is one of his best performances.

There are a couple of sugary sweet specials that have since found themselves in lesser rotation.  The 1970’s story with Kris Kringle and the Burgermeister Meisterburger in Santa Claus is Coming to Town.  And the mouse classic, “Twas the Night Before Christmas” which follows a mouse family that needs to prove to their geeky son that there really is a Santa Claus.

Then there were those ones that were so bad they were good.

Around our house, the “Garfield Christmas Special” was a favorite, partly due to the fact that we liked the mischeivious little orange cat, partly because we liked the fact that a cartoon showed someone going back to the farm, and who couldn’t love the song, “Let’s Have a Good Old Fashioned Christmas Down on the Farm.”  Quite frankly, the thing was just funny.

My personal favorite was shown only one year that I’m aware of - during the age when Claymation ruled supreme and the California Raisins were the toast of the cartoon community…it was a brief reign, but they managed to make one whole Christmas special based on Claymation - and it was funny.  I can’t listen to Carol of the Bells with a straight face anymore.  They turned a very serious rendition of “We Three Kings” - with the very solemn kings singing each verse, with do-whooping camels singing the refrain in their sneakers…irreverent, yes - funny, absolutely.

When my sister was little - ok, and I wasn’t that old either, I went through the effort of taping all of the specials one Christmas.  She loved it.  For the next year, in the cold of January and the heat of July, you could walk through the living room and she would be watching one of the Christmas classics.

Somewhere, that tape was lost over the years.  But the memories of the Christmas classic will live on in the memory, and in some cases, the funny bone.

 I’m a reader.  I enjoy a good book and a good story.  As a kid, I remember my favorite book was a one of Laura Ingalls Wilder’s books (from Little House on the Prairie fame) called “Farmer Boy.”  The story of her husband’s youth growing up on their late 1800’s farm in western New York State.

It was a compelling read of farming, nature, and hard work.  Something growing up on the plains for Northern Minnesota, I could relate too.

There was one story that I remember quite well - it was about Thanksgiving.  After morning chores, but before the big traditional Thanksgiving feast, the children would do an inventory of everything on the farm - the cattle, sheep, chickens, the sacks of wheat, shocks of corn, bags of potatoes, the jugs of cider, and even to the point of counting every last apple in their root cellar.

It was a good lesson in realizing what they had, and a good lesson for a youngster in the 1980’s to think about.

As a society, we aren’t very good at realizing what we have or where we have come from.  It is part of the danger of a fast moving world.  A world that tells us that we must have and want everything right now.

We tend to lose our perspective.

It is Thanksgiving Day back in the US today.  And while I won’t be there to celebrate it for the third year in a row, it doesn’t mean that I’m less thankful for what I have.  If anything, it merely strips away the trappings of the day and lays bare the true root of the holiday.

It helps too that I’ve lived two years out of a couple of suitcases full of stuff.  You realize that the stuff is just that, but the true treasures in life are far more valuable.  It is faith in the things not seen and the hope of things to come.  It is the freedom to think, and feel, and chose, and live.  It is the friends and family that might be a long distance away, but never far from the heart.

The world trembles today with fatigue and weariness over the continuing financial calamities.  Society seems bent low on how bad things are, they seemed fixated on what a muddle we are in.

But we lose sight of what we have.  How though the stock market goes up and down.  Our economy is in shambles.  World governments can’t seem to make a decision….life isn’t that bad.  As a matter of fact, it is probably better than it ever has been.  People are living longer.  Fewer people globally are starving then ever before.  The world is more at peace than it has been in a very long time.

That doesn’t mean that life isn’t hard.  It is meant to be.  That doesn’t mean we shouldn’t be thankful for the wonderful things that we have.

Happy Thanksgiving and remember to count your apples.

 I wasn’t a football player in high school, and while there are many reasons for this (broken arm my seventh grade year, milking cows every morning and night, complete lack of coordination), it didn’t deter me from cheering on my hometown Mahnomen Indians, especially as a great deal of my friends were on the team.

And what a team it was.

The Mahnomen Indians of the early 1990’s were a force to be reckoned with.  Rarely did we get out of milking cows as kids - we would start early and let Dad finish for school functions.  If we had a cast on, it usually got us out of it, and the FFA convention each spring, but otherwise, we were expected to be down in the barn, hefting bales and feed pails, and pulling teats (ok, we used machines, but it interrupted the poetry that is the barn work…).

The only other rare exception was the annual Minnesota State Prep Bowl, the annual championship football game held for the State of Minnesota.

And my hometown was almost always represented.

Our local football team wasn’t just good, they were great.  We aren’t talking about a once and done trip to the cities to run their luck at playing in the championship game, we are talking about repeat, back to back….not once…not twice…not three times…but four, count them four (4) Minnesota State Class C Football Championship victories.

Not too bad for some hicks from the sticks.

The players and the starters would change every year, but there was one constant - Mr. Baumann, the head football coach for decades - that had an amazing record.  Part of it was he was a good coach, good with the players, good with the community, and part of it was that he just knew his game.  There was one game when we were behind, and I remember a play that he did that just baffled his opponent and the referees.  Play was stopped as the refs stopped and searched the rule book.

The refs never doubted him, but they had to see the rule…just to make sure.

So every year during my time at the high school, the band would pack up the old school bus, normally Bill Bruggemann’s old #5, and make the five to six hour trip south and east to the metropolis of Minneapolis to the Hubert H Humphrey Metrodome to cheer on and play our team on to victory.

Usually, there were signs on the Mainstreet that had such sayings as “will the last one to leave for the game please turn out the lights.”  It was a joke that never got old.

The first stop was normally the Hardee’s in Alexandria - where the bus would take on fuel, and we would fill our stomachs with breakfast sandwiches, hashbrowns, and caffeine (Mountain Dew for breakfast anyone?).

Then proceed to the cities, where we would unload our instruments and head into the mighty dome, home of the Minnesota Vikings, Gophers, and once a year - our beloved Mahnomen Indians (who probably have a better streak then either the Vikes or the Gophers….).

My older brother, who played football back in the 1980’s during one of the first prep bowls, claim to have been the first one to walk into the dome and state, “Man, think of how much hay you could fit in here!”

But we usually did it anyway.

Inevitably - at least for the last four years of my high school career - they won, and there was celebrating and cheer back in the hometown - and the bus with the bands and the fans would make their way on the long journey into the night, back up the highways and by-ways to the little town on the edge of the prairie - arriving back the same day…though now, pushing midnight.

It was always a fun but exhausting trip on the Friday after Thanksgiving.  But at least it got me out of milking cows.

This weekend, the Mahnomen Indians will be playing for yet another state title.  It is a new coach, a new team, but the same bloodlines and the same heritage.  Go Indians!

Every kid has that special toy that they remember, a family favorite that created hours of enjoyment.  Much of our toys that we got to play with growing up were hand me downs from one of the older brothers.  Being the fourth of four boys, we had a lot of toys around, and most of it was well worn.Lucky for us, Mom did acrylic painting.  Sometimes this was on ceramics, but more often then not, it was on cloth material.  Some of our favorite holiday wall hangings were painted by Mom - the big Santa Claus, the Nativity Scene.  But she also did some bigger projects.

For one of my older brothers, she painted a big matchbox map of a town.  It was like looking at a good sized town from an overhead view with a grid of streets, buildings, shrubs, trees, and parks.

It had everything that a normal town would have.  There was a big old church right in the middle of town.  There was a main street with a thriving business district with a movie theatre and a department store along with a string of other shops and stores.  On one side of town was a school, and on the other side was a big hospital.

It had the look and feel of a very modern town - with all of the homes and buildings with that distinct 1960’s and 70’s box style construction, very modern, like stepping into a set from the Brady Bunch shows.

Looking at it from above, you could make out the roof lines, the parking lots, the placement of the trees, shrubs, streets and alleys.

And it was the streets and alleys where the action happened.  It was perfect for the large set of matchbox cars that we had.  Each driveway had a car.  The homes would be of friends and neighbors that lived in our own little town.  Each house had an occupant.

It provided hours of entertainment, as people got sick and were rushed to the hospital and to waiting ambulances.  There were police chases - something reminiscent of the scenes out of Smokey and the Bandit or the Dukes of Hazard with a full contigent of police cars - sometimes chasing the hotwheels replica of the General Lee.

Sometimes too, we would mix the toys a little bit.  We had a pretty healthy collection of match box tanks and military hardware, so sometimes the map would turn into a war zone.  Sometimes even more so as the little green army men that could be bought in bulk from the Dime Store fought full scale warefare through the streets.

Sometimes the Johnny West figures - made of the same molded plastic fought off an Indian raid on the main street of town.

I’m not sure Mom intended us to use it for a battle map, and the scale wasn’t quite right, but it sure worked well in our imaginations.

Though it was getting a little frayed and tattered, Its now in my nephews hands.  I’m hoping that they find as much fun and enjoyment out of it as we did, it was amazing how much fun you could have with a cloth map with a sibling, some cars, and a whole lot of imagination.

 Minnesota and North Dakota seems to love conformity, no one steps out of line, no one tries things out of the ordinary.  If they do, they open themselves up to scorn and ridicule.  In some parts of the world, it is known as “tall poppy syndrome.”  The idea that the tallest poppy in the field gets its head chopped off.  In Scandinavia, it was known as Jante Law - all equal principle.  It is the belief that individual success and accomplishment are - not necessarily a bad thing - but that it is probably inappropriate.

The feeling, especially in the world of adolescents was the need to fit in, conform, and any desire not to do so was seen as “putting on airs.”

With three older brothers, it was pretty easy keep me in check.  While we were encouraged to get good grades, to do well and excel, we were told not to celebrate those things.

Please don’t get me wrong - we are a proud people.  Fiercely loyal and caring - but there was an undercurrent that you did your work, got your grades and awards, and shut up about it.

There were pockets of resistance.  Teachers in school that rewarded high achievement.  People in the community that provided support.

My fifteenth birthday is one that will stick’s with me as a turning point.  As a tenth grader, just entering high school, the peer pressure was there - to do the normal high school things, to fit in.

After chores that night, the family settled down to supper, a good birthday at home surrounded by family.  A quiet one.  Then Mom brought out the cake.

It was simple in a lot of ways, but on the top, she had drawn a map of the upper Midwest with line tracking my travels - Kansas City for the National Future Farmers of America convention, St. Paul for the Hugh O’Brien Youth Conference, Winnipeg for the band trip. 

Between the candles and underneath the happy birthday were the words, “You Are Really Going Places!”

I think I’d always known that it was ok to do things different, to reach for high achievement, to not conform, but here it was in black and white…well, ok, in sugar and icing.  It was ok for me to strike out on my own, to blaze some trails.

In some ways, it encouraged me as well - have courage.  To know that it was alright to dream big dreams. 

Strangely, it also endeared our home and our community even more so to me.

That birthday was a long time ago.  Since then, I’ve travelled on four continents and numerous countries.  I’ve pushed myself - university, graduate school, travel, writing, community involvement.  I’m not sure where I’m going, but in the end, it is less about the destination, and more about the journey.    

I think Mom was telling me, in her own quiet way, that it was alright to dream big, to go places, to make the most of what I had.

It was one of the best birthday presents I’ve ever gotten.

 There was little militarism in my family growing up.  There was no active recruiting for the service.  No one said that in order for us kids to be all we could be, we had to join one of the branches of the armed services.

But we knew of the veterans in the family.

We heard tales of Grandpa Jirik and his trip beyond the wilderness of Minnesota, through the big woods of Wisconsin and on to Fort Grant where they were trained to join General Pershing’s finest in the American Expeditionary Forces that would land in France and make their way to the front lines to fight the Hun.  We would hear the terrors of the trip as the influenza epidemic killed more than enemy gunfire.

The little mementos filled the antics and closets of our home - postcards from the frontlines in a packet, his uniform in the big wooden box, his bugle in Mom and Dad’s closet.  It was a piece of him and his history that shaped him.

Dad too had been an enlistee, serving on the Korean front in a mobile hospital unit as a mechanic.  Though he never saw combat, he lived close to the front line as the tensioned simmered.  Through the house were little reminders too - jewelry boxes, small figurines of the people of Japan and Korea doing their normal chores.  Fans and chopsticks.  His uniform hung in his closet - with PFC Jirik marked above the pocket.

Dad’s brother, Uncle Hank, was the most dedicated of the lot.  Though he came across as a pretty mild mannered guy, he lived his life in service.  When we was 17, he enlisted in the Navy, with a desire to be a Seabee because, “he knew how to drive a tractor and it looked like fun.”  They made him take an aptitude and intelligence test, and when the old sergeant came out, he asked Uncle Hank what he wanted to do.

“I want to be a Seabee.”  Uncle Hank replied.

“Good.  Congratulations.  You are going to become a medic.”  Was the reply.

And a medic in the Navy he became.  Until that one fateful day at the end of his medic training when it was announced that the Navy didn’t need more medics…but the Marines did.  He served out his term with the Marines and decided it was time to get out.  Especially since he had met the love of his life as a female enlistee on the base.

So he tried civilian life.

Which he didn’t like.

So he reenlisted, this time, in the Coast Guard, and served on cutters and helicopters, trying to save those in harm’s way and protect our borders.

So he tried civilian life.

And it stuck….for a while.  Then he joined the Pennsylvania Air National Guard, and retired as a Sergeant Major.

He was a good uncle, and a good soldier.

I’ll never forget his funeral.  We were at the wake the night before, and Aunt Peg was lamenting the fact that there would be no honor guard as he was laid to rest at Indiantown Gap National Cemetery the next day - there were too many veterans passing away to provide an honor guard for everyone.

It was only a short while later then the commanding general of the Pennsylvania Air National Guard walked in to pay his respects.

“No honor guard?”  He growled.  “They will meet you at the cemetery.”

The next morning, Uncle Hank was laid to rest with full military honors and a full color guard.

No sir, I didn’t come from a military family at all…but they sure knew how to serve.

 We grew up with foxes.  They were a common sight in the pastures, fields, and roadways.  While they rarely bothered the homestead (the dogs were thanked for that), they did make their home out in the big cow pasture, their red and orange hides standing out in the verdant green.

Every once in a while, you would see them trotting with the cattle, once even seeing a couple of kits riding on the back of one of the old cows, who didn’t seem to care one way or another.  While we knew they could be dangerous, they didn’t bother us, and we didn’t bother them.

Over time, the foxes disappeared.  Some people blamed mange and other diseases.  Some people hinted at something a little more sinister.  There were reports of wild dogs roaming the woods down along the river, there were sightings of them at night along the quiet back roads like the one that passed by our farm.  Coyotes, or a mix of dogs and the old native coyotes, were said to be roaming the countryside.  They got the foxes it was said - they were bigger, harder to see, and more vicious.

They were only around for a couple of years, transitory, unlike the foxes that we grew up with.  They disappeared too, but it seemed there was something new in the neighborhood.

Our first sign was missing calf.  Normally, we liked to have cows in the barn when they calved.  But occasionally, one gave birth out in the pasture, coming fresh quicker then expected.

The calf was usually close by…but this time, while it was clear the cow had calved, there was no sign of the little critter anywhere. We searched the pasture and the surrounding field, thinking that it couldn’t just wander off - and we should find at least its carcass somewhere.

But there was not a sign of it.  There were rumors of other farmers missing calves too.

In town, Dad heard tales that timber wolves used to just wait behind a cow giving birth and just eat the whole thing as it came out.

Mom and Dad had seen a wolf one time - driving through the northwoods of Minnesota, it crossed the road in front of them.  It was tall, lone, lean, and desperate.  It looked hungry.  But we had never had wolves around our area before - not for as long as Dad had been alive, and that was going back into the 1920’s.

Months later, Dad was hauling manure out in the pasture and had the .22 at his side.  There had been reports of a wild dog running through the neighborhood, chasing cattle and raising ruckus.  Sure enough, he saw a wild dog loping through the pasture.  He drew the gun up and had the dog in his sight…as he was getting ready to pull the trigger, he thought to himself, this was the biggest dog he had ever seen…

Then it crossed his mind…wolves are a protected species…

As he got closer, it was pretty clear, this wasn’t a dog it had to be a timber wolf.  Dad was glad he didn’t take that shot.

A quick visit to a local official confirmed his suspicions, wolves were back in the area after almost a century of being gone.  Since they were a protected species, you had to get a federal trapper in to take care of it, especially if it was killing livestock…the wait for a federal trapper was about two years…there were a lot of wolves.

“What am I suppose to do if it kills more calves?” Dad asked.

“Well, not much you can do…but a radio collar won’t transmit if you bury it deep enough.”

 On the surface, our upbringing seemed pretty normal.  Like most of the people we knew, we grew up on a farm.  Though we knew the rigors of chores, field work, and milking cows, we didn’t know that there was a different life.  It was just the way things were.

Our farm too seemed pretty ho-hum, pretty plain jane.  We were a mixed farm with crops and livestock.  A small feed lot and dairy cattle with dogs and cats to fill the gaps.  The house was pretty normal too - family pictures, agricultural artwork on the walls, and family heirlooms filling the shelves of the old secretary desk. 

My Dad too seemed pretty straight laced.  To me, he was just always Dad.  A farmer born and bred and a natural at the job, he woke up, had his coffee, got us moving, milked cows, worked in the fields, was involved in the community, and lead a pretty routine life.  It was all pretty normal and sane.  He grew up in the same town we lived in.  We lived in the house built by his grandfather and uncle, and added onto by Dad himself.

On weekends, we would gather with relatives and extended families that all seemed to live similar lives in similar homes.

There didn’t seem to be any secrets….but yet, there were some things that didn’t seem to fit.

In the dark corners of attics and in our parents room, there were objects that just didn’t seem to belong.

There was that dark black jewellery box with the fancy painted top…definitely not Minnesotan.  There were the oriental fans that were stuck in Dad’s sock drawer that we would see when ever we went to get him a pair of socks on Sunday mornings.  There were the odd small wooden boxes tucked next to the Christmas decorations that had the man with oxen and the man pulling the cart of water jugs.  All very oriental in appearance.  There were the chopsticks. 

To us kids, growing up in a very Midwestern household, they were strange and mysterious things.  Compared to the other things that surrounded us, they were very much out of place.

“Where did this come from?”  We would ask occasionally, looking at some strange object found in a closet, or drawer.

“Your father bought that in Japan, during the war.” Mom would reply.

It just seemed very foreign that our father, the man that was the stoic farmer, that milked cows and lived by a regimented schedule, that seemed to be a part of the very land that we lived on, had ever lived any other life.

“Oh….right….” we would reply, hearing, but not fathoming.

Dad didn’t talk much about his service in Korea.  He was a very present focused person, more interested in the here and now, or reaching back to the distant time of growing up on the farm…but skipping over that fifteen year period he left the farm.

But occasionally, a story or two would come out.   Sometimes, it was over a meal, or watching television.  Small anecdotes, usually pretty funny, usually pretty stark - the story of the little dog that slept between the beds of him and his friend that used to stand guard duty with them - that would bark when an officer would approach to wake them…that they found on spit of one of the camp followers (though he never begrudged them for it…said they needed the food…).  Or how they used to help the young Korean kid in charge of the showers to get the heaters going…so they would get a hot shower - when they weren’t suppose too.  Or starting the trucks in the middle of the bitter cold Korean winters.

As a kid, we couldn’t fathom that part of his life - that there was anything other outside of the farm…but the fans, and boxes, and statues bear witness to a man of the land, who wandered a bit before finding his roots.   

 The first Tuesday in November was always a big day in our house, it was election day.  It stood, as much as the Fourth of July or Memorial Day about what is great about our country.  While the Fourth of July and Memorial Day celebrate the glorious past, the first Tuesday in November symbolizes that our freedom and liberty - along with all its warts and bumps - is alive and well.

For our family, my father especially, it was a busy day.  Though our entire household, from grandparents on down, had a strong history of civic responsibility, serving in various elected and appointed positions (Dad still sits on the local township board and is approaching almost thirty years at the post), election day was the highlight of the year.

The polls were open from seven am until eight pm.  Dad would rouse us out of bed early so that we could get the chores and milking done before school, while he showered and shaved and Mom made coffee and “a little lunch” usually a pan of bars, some koblaha, and a few other treats for Dad and the rest of the election crew.

The election for our township, our thirty-six square mile local government area, was at an old school house converted for elections and meetings into the township hall, sitting on a little plot of land in the center of the township.

Dad would leave early to open up the building and make sure that the heaters were working.  We usually stopped by the week prior to make sure that everything was in working order, cut the weeds, and sweep out the little buildings in the middle of the open fields.

There was usually a pretty good crew of folks, all friends and neighbors, working the place, signing people in, handing out ballots, and acting as impartial judges.

Mom would usually swing by with lunch about noon or meet Dad in town as he got his break from the action.

We would take care of chores at night, than move into the house to watch the national polls roll in, especially every four years in the big presidential election years.  Meanwhile, once the local polls closed, Dad and the rest of the crew would carefully count each ballot, then seal them into an envelope and bring them to the country courthouse.

There, the rest of the chief election judges would bring the ballots in from around the county.  Drinking coffee and visiting, they would watch through the night as the votes were added up and totalled and wait for the results.

Meanwhile, back on the farm, we continued to watch as the polls slowly closed across the country and as state results came in.  Watching the national and state races with great interest, we would dutifully wait until Dad came home.

Usually around ten, Dad would come home, exhausted from a long day or visiting and controlling the chaos of the little school house.  He would give us the tallies as he remembered them, letting us know who won in the township - all the local, state, and national races, then give us a blow by blow on the local level.  Who was ahead, who was behind, and what the prognosis was as the results were coming in.

There were always a few townships that took painfully long to count the ballots - or that were just so far away from the courthouse (some of them being over an hour drive away) - that Dad didn’t have the final numbers.  So there might be a surprise the next morning…but the early results were usually pretty on, especially with a little prognosis from Dad.

“Oh yeah, Reagan is ahead so far, but just wait until those eastern townships come in, they always swing to the Democrats.” He might prognosticate.

And most of the time, he was right on.  A long day, but a great celebration of democracy and freedom in action.