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From Worst to First, and Beyond

A last-chair saxophone player’s slow climb to first chair, and the band director who never let contempt into the room. A long-overdue than you

We are downsizing, and my wife has asked me to do a bit more of the sorting than I’d prefer. That’s how I ended up on the floor of a closet with a box of photographs across my lap, the kind of box you mean to go through quickly and never do. Many of them were from high school. There were pictures of family and friends, but a surprising number were from band. We were standing on football fields, sitting on buses, and wearing uniforms I’d forgotten we ever wore. The faces of the people I spent those years beside were all there, and looking at them made me think about the man who’d stood behind nearly all of it.

Mr. Winter was one of the most influential people in my life. I hadn’t thought about him in a while. Once I did, I couldn’t stop.

I came to band the way many children come to things. I wanted to belong before I fully understood what I was joining. My sister was already in high school, and one of her best friends played saxophone. The band at our high school had been good for years. People came to football games as much for the band as for the team, and more than a few left after halftime, once the show they’d come to see was over. It was a program with a reputation, and even as a child I understood that being part of it meant something.

It wasn’t just the locals who thought so. While I was in the band, it received the Sudler Flag, an award recognizing the finest high school bands in the country, and ours was the first in the state to earn it. The honor reflected what the program had built long before I arrived, but I was there when it came, and that felt special. It was exactly the kind of thing a child wants to be part of, even before he understands the work required to belong there.

What captured my imagination most, however, was the traveling. Every third year, the band went somewhere significant for a competition or a tour. My sister’s friend had gone to Europe, which seemed impossibly glamorous to a fifth grader growing up where I did. The band would later become the first from our state to march in the Rose Bowl parade, and during my sophomore year we were scheduled to travel to Washington, D.C., for the Cherry Blossom Festival. I didn’t know any of those destinations when I chose the saxophone. I knew only that if I joined and stayed long enough, I’d eventually get on that bus and go somewhere that felt much larger than the world I knew.

So I chose the saxophone and imagined the rest would follow. I’d become part of something great, take the trip, and collect the kind of experience that seemed to belong to older and more interesting people.

The problem was that I didn’t enjoy band, at least not in junior high. I didn’t like to practice, it didn’t come naturally to me, and as a result I wasn’t very good. It was a reliable formula. I avoided the work, remained bad at the thing, and then used being bad as further justification for avoiding the work. Junior high is difficult enough on a child’s confidence. Your body is changing without consulting you, and whatever certainty you possessed a few years earlier quietly disappears. Practicing at home, where someone might hear me, wasn’t something I wanted to do.

It didn’t help that my father was both a perfectionist and a genuinely gifted musician. The person most likely to hear me could also hear exactly what I was doing wrong. So I didn’t practice, and because I didn’t practice, I remained at or near last chair for most of those years. There is no hiding a thing like that. The seating chart announces it for you.

By the end of junior high, I’d developed a plan. I’d stay in band through my sophomore year, take the major trip, and then quit. The band was going to Washington, D.C., and I’d already endured too many uncomfortable years to walk away before the reward. In my mind, the arrangement was settled. I’d hang on long enough to see Washington and then put the saxophone away for good. The trip had always been the goal. Band was simply the price of admission.

None of this was a plan I shared with anyone. So when I went to my parents, sooner than my own schedule called for, and told them I wanted to quit outright, I wasn’t really asking. I knew what they’d say. It was the kind of thing teenagers do, rattling a door to see whether it’s still locked. It was.

My father believed in what music education could do for a person, and he wasn’t prepared to let me leave simply because I was frustrated. He was a surgeon, and surgeons aren’t inclined to reopen a decision once they’ve closed it. I resented the rule at the time, but he was right. Had he allowed me to quit when I wanted to, the story would have ended there, somewhere near the bottom of a junior high seating chart.

My mother was different. She looked for another solution, and the solution she found was private lessons. Somehow, my parents persuaded Mr. Winter to teach me. He didn’t take many students, but once a week for the next three years, he took me.

I’ve never known exactly why he agreed. Perhaps he saw something in me, although there wasn’t much evidence available at the time. Perhaps it was simply a little extra money on the side. Years later, after I became a teacher myself, I came to think there was another explanation. Good teachers don’t reserve their effort for the students who make teaching easy. They work with the student sitting in front of them and try to move that person forward. Mr. Winter had done that for the students who came before me, and he’d do it for those who came after, because that was the kind of teacher he was.

His house wasn’t far from the school, an ordinary home with a black trumpet standing near the entrance. The trumpet was his instrument. The saxophone, unfortunately for both of us, was mine. The lessons took place in a small office where we warmed up with scales in different keys and then worked through whatever the band was rehearsing. I’d play a passage, and he’d interrupt. A missed note, a rhythm I’d gotten wrong, or a phrase that bore only a passing resemblance to the music on the page, and we’d stop.

He figured out fairly early that I learned by ear. If I heard something played correctly, I could usually imitate it. He’d pick up the trumpet, play the phrase, and have me play it back to him. Sometimes he made me count the rhythm aloud, which felt childish but worked. He could become frustrated. I could see that. But he never once let contempt into that room. He corrected me without humiliating me. He didn’t get angry, and he didn’t make me feel small, which wasn’t always how correction felt at home.

Don’t mistake his patience for softness. In that small office, and later in the band room, he pushed me harder than I’d have pushed myself. He was demanding, structured, and occasionally intimidating. Some people thought he bordered on authoritarian. I eventually came to believe there was an important difference between an authoritarian and a disciplinarian. An authoritarian pushes for control so that the person in charge remains at the center. A disciplinarian pushes the group, and every person within it, toward excellence.

With Mr. Winter, it was never about him. It was about us. He believed that through discipline, hard work, and consistency we could become great, and he ran the room like a man who meant it. He demanded excellence, and we wanted to give it to him. I wanted to be excellent, and I think most of the others did too.

I remember him telling us once that we needed to be at the practice field by five o’clock. He let that sit for a moment, and then he explained what he actually meant. If you arrived at five, you were late. If you arrived at four fifty-five, you were also late. You were expected to plan for the unexpected, the flat tire, the fender bender, the train that might hold up traffic, whatever might keep you from where you needed to be. To this day, when I have somewhere to be, I arrive fifteen to twenty minutes early. He wasn’t really teaching us about punctuality. He was teaching us that showing up late let down everyone else who had already arrived on time.

Even when we were certain we’d improved, he found the small thing still wrong. The spacing was off in the marching formation. The trumpets were too loud in the jazz band. Someone had missed an entrance. The clarinets needed to give more. Everything was held together by structure, and all of us were accountable to it. There was no false praise in that room. If he told you something was good, it was good, which is exactly why it mattered so much when, on the rare night we truly put everything together, he’d tell us the performance had given him goosebumps. He wasn’t a man who traded casually in that kind of praise, so it meant the world. You worked an entire season hoping to hear one sentence like that. I understand now that he tended to say it in the day or two before a concert or a competition, which meant it was less a report on what had already happened than his way of telling us we were ready.

I don’t know exactly when the lessons began to work. There was no single morning when I woke up able to play. The improvement arrived quietly. Through the challenge system, I’d sit across from the player ahead of me, and we’d compete for the chair. I began to move up, one seat at a time. I moved out of last chair, climbed through the ranks, and eventually moved out of the lowest band.

One of those moves meant more than the others. Throughout junior high and the beginning of high school, I’d played the second part, the harmony, which never made much sense to my ear. I wanted the melody, the line the song seemed to be built around. When I finally won my way onto a first part, it felt like more than another chair. It was the difference between singing lead in a rock band and standing in the back with the other harmonizers. I was carrying the tune now.

As I moved upward, something happened that mattered more than the seating chart. I gained confidence. For the first time, I began to enjoy not merely belonging to the band, which was all I’d originally wanted, but the music itself. I enjoyed reading it, interpreting it, and performing it. The thing I’d spent years avoiding became something I looked forward to.

I started practicing. The high school had small practice rooms, and that was where I did most of it. At home, I learned to find times when the critical ears were elsewhere. I was finally doing what my father had always hoped I’d do, but I was no longer doing it because he expected it. I was doing it because I wanted to improve.

The trip to Washington came during my sophomore year. For years, it had been the finish line. I’d planned to endure band long enough to take the trip and then quit. By the time we returned, however, I no longer wanted to leave. The lessons had changed the bargain. They had taken something I was merely surviving and turned it into one of the greatest experiences of my life.

Sometime during my junior year, I made the permanent jump from the junior varsity band, the concert band, to the varsity, the symphonic band. Make no mistake, symphonic was the A-team, the place you wanted to be. The move came with a small indignity. Climbing into a stronger band meant returning near the bottom, which put me back on the second part again. This time it didn’t bother me. I’d stopped keeping score of first parts and second parts and started caring about the music. I trusted that if I continued to work, the climb would come.

By my senior year, I reached first chair. I’d gone from worst to first, although I’d never describe myself as an outstanding musician. I was good, and I felt good about what I could do. Somewhere along the way, I’d come to love all of it: the band, my friends, the performances, the trips, the music, and the life that surrounded it. That was the real distance traveled, farther than the chairs could measure.

That same year, Mr. Winter gave me another responsibility I hadn’t seen coming. Before each concert selection, I stood in front of the audience and explained what they were about to hear. He wrote out the introductions and made me rehearse them until they were right, the same way he made me practice everything else. The boy who’d spent years hoping no one was listening was now the person he placed in front of the audience to speak.

After graduation, I thought about playing in college but decided against it. I didn’t believe I had enough ability to justify the time it would require while keeping my grades where they needed to be, so I let it go. I still have the saxophone. During the current purge, I’ve considered selling it so that another child might get from it what I eventually did, later than I should have, but not too late.

College led to law school, and through both I found myself relying on lessons Mr. Winter had taught me without ever intending them to apply beyond the band room. I learned the discipline required to work toward a goal, the value of preparation and repetition, and the importance of refusing to settle for work that was merely adequate. Nearly a decade after I graduated from high school, his influence was still shaping what I did every day, which is probably why running into him in a hallway in Madison, right after I argued my first case before the state Supreme Court, felt like something closing a circle.

The court was holding a traveling session that year, hearing cases in a college theater with members of the public seated in the audience. I was nervous. When the argument ended and I walked into the hallway, Mr. Winter was standing there.

He told me he was in town to fish and had seen that the court was holding a session, so he decided to come. I don’t think he drove to Madison specifically to see me. I suspect he noticed my name and decided to stay, which is somehow the better version of the story.

We spoke for only a minute. He told me I’d done a good job, and then he said something I’ve remembered ever since. You were always a good speaker, he told me. He was right. Years before I stood in a courtroom, he’d placed me in front of concert audiences and made me practice speaking until I could do it well. Like a good teacher, he’d recognized something in me and pushed me to develop it long before I understood that was what he was doing.

We talked briefly about where life had taken us. He said it was good to see me, and then we went our separate ways. That was approximately thirty years ago, and I believe it was the last time I saw him.

I cherished those three years in that band as much as almost anything else in my life. I’m still in touch with a few of the people who stood on those fields and stages beside me, though I’ve lost touch with most of them. A fortieth reunion is coming this fall. I don’t know yet if I’ll go. But if I knew Mr. Winter would be there, I’d give serious consideration to making the three hundred fifty mile drive to see him.

Mr. Winter is still alive. He’s in his nineties now and, as far as I know, still lives in the same house with the small office where I sat across from him all those years ago. I can’t repay him for what he gave me. I’ve tried to carry the lessons forward, applying them to my own life and passing them along when I later stood in front of students of my own. What I never did was thank him the way he deserved to be thanked.

Perhaps he’ll read this. Perhaps someone back home who still knows him will see it and place it in front of him. I hope so, because this is the thank you I should have given him a long time ago. Thank you for taking on a student who wasn’t very good and didn’t yet care enough to become better. Thank you for demanding more without making me feel small. Thank you for seeing something in me before I knew it was there. Thank you for turning an experience I intended to abandon into one of the defining experiences of my life.

It began with a box of photographs and all those faces from band. Mr. Winter appeared in only one of them, and even there he was just a figure in the background. But he was in every picture, all the same.

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The 8.3 Miles We Keep Walking

Someone I was dating in college made me watch a movie I had no interest in seeing. Somewhere in Time. I went along with it the way you go along with things in college, more interested in the company than the film. Then Christopher Reeve fell in love with a photograph, Rachmaninoff started playing, and somewhere in the middle of a story about a man traveling back through decades for a woman he’d never met, I stopped being polite about watching it and started actually watching it.

The hotel looked like something from another century, which it was. I didn’t know its name yet, but I knew I wanted to stand inside it someday.

Not long afterward, I bought some cologne, and four mugs came free with the purchase, each printed with a different historic hotel. I couldn’t tell you the other three today, but I still have the fourth. The print has faded from years of dishwasher cycles and daily use, but it still says Grand Hotel, Mackinac Island.

That mug’s made every move I’ve made since. It went with me through law school, to Pierre, to Canton, to Sioux Falls, and then to another house in Sioux Falls. Almost forty years have passed, and it’s never once been left behind.

Years later, my wife and I were trying to decide where to go on our honeymoon. I suggested Mackinac Island. When I explained why, she told me she’d seen the same movie. Not a similar movie. The same movie, with the same hotel and the same Rachmaninoff. Neither of us knew anyone else who’d watched it, so we booked the trip.

The day we first crossed over was cloudy, late May, with fog low enough to swallow the island whole. Standing on the shore in Mackinaw City, I couldn’t tell which direction to look because there was nothing out there to see yet. Then the ferry pulled away from the dock, and somewhere in the middle of the strait, the fog thinned enough to let the island through.

Fort Mackinac appeared first, high on the bluff. Then came Grand Hotel, long and white and exactly like the movie, except it wasn’t a movie anymore. It was real, and we were finally close enough to walk to it.

We stepped off the ferry into the combined smell of horse manure and fudge, which isn’t something anyone warns you about but is something you never forget. We didn’t know which way to walk. There were signs pointing travelers toward Grand Hotel, but half a mile feels different when you’re new somewhere and don’t quite trust the directions.

We kept walking and waiting for the hotel to appear the way it had from the ferry. It took longer than it should have for a half mile covered on foot at a reasonable pace. Excitement does that. It stretches distance instead of shortening it.

Grand Hotel has a dress code for dinner, including a jacket and tie for men after six, and walking into its dining room for the first time was its own kind of time travel. Some men wore sport coats, while others wore tuxedos. Women arrived in evening gowns, and the entire room had a formality that’s difficult to find anywhere else now. Nobody seemed uncomfortable with it. It felt like the natural way to end a day on an island where nothing else moves very fast either.

My wife loves to dance. After that first year, we signed up for lessons so we could actually do it properly, the foxtrot, the waltz, the jitterbug. She took to all of it. I took to it the way a man takes to something his wife loves more than he does, which is to say I learned the steps and stopped complaining about them. We still dance when we’re there, though not every night anymore. Some nights one of us is simply too tired, and we’ve reached the age where we admit it.

That first trip belonged entirely to discovery. We splurged on a bottle of French wine with dinner one night, the kind of extravagance that felt enormous to two people just starting out. We walked more than either of us had walked in years, enough that my legs ached in a way they never had before, but every mile felt worth the ache. The island made us feel as though we’d discovered something no one else knew about. That feeling remained even with a hundred other honeymooners making the same discovery a few feet away.

The boys came a few years later, and with them came a different kind of walking. The first time we covered the full 8.3 miles around the island, we did it on bicycles. Our older son was ten and pedaling behind us on a bike with no gears. He was working three times as hard as we were to cover the same ground, and somewhere along the shoreline road, he began narrating the injustice of it out loud. I couldn’t tell you whether he was whining or simply providing an accurate report of his circumstances. It was probably a little of both.

The perimeter loop was only part of the walking we did during those family trips. We walked to the Woods, not for the restaurant but for the duck pin bowling alley next door. We walked downtown for fudge and whatever souvenir had become that trip’s obsession. We walked to the fort and actually toured it, including the reenactors, cannon fire, and entire production, which is exactly the sort of thing my wife and I tend to skip when it’s just the two of us. On ambitious days, we walked to British Landing on the far side of the island. It was about as far as small legs could go before turning back made more sense than pushing forward.

The shape of the day depended on the weekend. Memorial Day, when we first visited, had very little scheduled around it. We’d begin with an enormous breakfast in the Grand’s dining room and spend the rest of the day working it off. Lunch was wherever we happened to find ourselves. Then came a nap, because you can’t dance all night without one, followed by dinner, dressed properly, and dancing afterward. Labor Day eventually became our favorite. Mornings belonged to walking, while midday brought a cookout and jazz concert. Then came the nap, dinner, and dancing. It had the same bones as our first Memorial Day trip, only now there was usually a saxophone playing somewhere in the background.

The weather never signed on to any of it. We’ve packed for one season and lived through three, worn sweatshirts in the morning, rain gear by noon, and shorts by late afternoon, sometimes all in the same day. You learn to bring everything and expect to use it.

That kind of day, replayed with small variations, is what comes to mind when people mention books I’ve never actually read. I’ve never read James Joyce’s Ulysses. I’ve read enough reviews and commentary to understand the idea, and several people whose judgment I respect consider it one of the greatest books ever written. I don’t know whether I’ll ever actually read it. But if I ever tried to write a book in that style, following people through the ordinary events of a single day, my day would take place on Mackinac Island. It would begin with breakfast in the Grand’s dining room and move through the paths, the fort, the horses, the fudge shops, and whatever lunch presented itself. There would be a nap in the afternoon, dinner after six, and music somewhere in the evening. Nothing extraordinary would have to happen, because on Mackinac Island the day itself would be enough.

Earning that kind of day on foot, though, took years. For a long time, walking the full 8.3 miles in one stretch seemed excessive when a bicycle could cover the same ground in a third of the time. It wasn’t until we were older that walking became the point rather than the obstacle. The perimeter is flat, paved, and wide enough to walk beside each other, but the interior is different. Paths climb toward the cemetery, the fort, Sugarloaf, the natural arch, and the governor’s summer residence. Some narrow into dirt trails just wide enough for one person. Others open into gravel roads where we can walk side by side again. Five minutes from the shoreline, the island becomes a completely different place.

The Woods has changed too. It was once where we took two tired boys to go bowling. Now it’s a quiet place where the two of us walk for dinner. The fort is still there, but we no longer feel compelled to tour it. Downtown still smells like fudge and horses, although we’re less likely to come home with a souvenir. The island has remained much the same, but we’re the ones who have changed. The walking that once seemed like something to endure has become one of the reasons we return.

Our last two trips came after Covid and after Grand Hotel changed hands, sold by the family that had owned it for nearly a century. There have been updates, some we like and some we don’t, but the bones of the place remain the same ones we fell in love with from a ferry deck in the fog. We stopped booking the basic room somewhere along the way. On one trip, we upgraded to a suite so magnificent that it remains one of the nicest rooms either of us has ever stayed in. Another trip put us in the Teddy Roosevelt room, and I’ll leave you to imagine what that involved. No two rooms at Grand Hotel are decorated alike. That may be the whole point of the place. We can walk the same 8.3 miles a dozen times and never have the same day twice, and sleep in a different room on every visit and never run out of ways to see the same hotel again.

The far end of the island is where it gets quiet. Most people never make it out there, and if you time it right, early enough or late enough, you can stand at the north shore and have the whole thing to yourselves. The water stretches north toward Canada, and there’s nothing to hear but the wind and the water against the rocks. We stood there on our last trip, the two of us, not saying much.

I don’t know what my wife thinks about when we stand there. I’ve never asked. I think about the Ojibwe who crossed this water long before there was a hotel or a fort or a fudge shop, the early travelers in canoes making the same crossing we made on a ferry, looking at the same strait we were looking at. Twenty-five years of marriage and I still can’t tell you what’s going through her head at that railing. That’s not a complaint. It might be the reason we keep coming back.

When we first started coming to the island, we were some of the youngest people staying at the hotel. The crowd has always skewed older, and back then we noticed it. We don’t notice it the same way now, because we’ve become it. The clientele never really changed. We did. These days I find myself watching the young couples, the ones on their honeymoons, and hoping a few of them are falling for the place the way we did, so that someday they’ll be the older ones standing at the north shore, wondering where the years went.

In a few weeks, we’ll move into a new home, and the faded Grand Hotel mug will make the move with us, just as it’s made every move since the mid-1980s. It’ll be wrapped in paper, placed in another box, and carried into another kitchen. The hotel on its side is harder to see than it once was, but it’s still there, holding the memory of a movie, a honeymoon, two boys, many trips, and all the miles we’ve walked together.

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The House Did Its Job

For many years, I have loved going to bookstores. The new releases. Certain topics. The sale rack. The ritual of browsing without knowing what you will find. It was probably around 2007 when I was in one of those bookstores and a title caught me: The Big House.

I pulled it off the shelf thinking it was about Michigan Stadium, about the Wolverines, about the kind of place that holds a region’s memory and sells overpriced sweatshirts to people who should know better. I don’t know why I thought that. The jacket made clear I was wrong almost immediately. It was George Howe Colt’s memoir about his family’s summer home on Cape Cod, the house his great-grandfather built in 1903, the Atkinson house, the place that held five generations before the family finally decided to sell it.

Even though the book was about something completely unexpected, something I ordinarily wouldn’t have picked up, I bought it anyway. I didn’t know it yet, but this was the book I needed.

What I didn’t know then was why I needed it. I had left houses before. College houses. Rental houses. Temporary places where you owned a few dishes, a bad couch, and the confidence of someone who did not yet understand compound interest. But the first real house I lost was the one I grew up in, and I didn’t choose to lose it.

My parents built that house from the ground up, the same way our family would later build a cabin and, eventually, the same way my wife and I would build our own dream house. I watched it go from a foundation and framing to something we actually lived in. I got a say in it too, or at least the kind of say a kid gets. I picked my carpet. I picked a football mural wallpaper for my room, the kind that seemed like the most important decision of my young life at the time. It was mine before I understood what that meant, and it stayed mine right up until it wasn’t.

That understanding arrived all at once. I learned around Christmas of my senior year in college that my parents were leaving Rapid City. My dad got a job that required a move, three hundred and sixty miles away. My parents would sell the house I had grown up in. When I came home for Easter, it had already sold. I walked through it knowing I would never see it this way again. It was the house where most of my memories lived, or at least where I thought they lived then. I had never been through losing a place like that before, and deep down I was afraid the memories might disappear with it.

Something did die with that sale, or at least it felt that way at the time. My dad had always had a house to go back to, and he took us with him. I assumed I would have the same thing to give my own kids someday, that I could walk them through the house I grew up in the way my dad had walked me through his. I didn’t know yet that a homebase isn’t something someone simply hands you. You build it, and eventually you lose it. My grandparents lived in the same house for over fifty years. I understand now how rare that actually is. What died with the sale wasn’t the house. It was that assumption. It was, in a way, my youth.

Graduation was on a Sunday. That night, I moved out of my college house and drove to my parents’ new house. A couple of days later, my parents arrived with everything else from the childhood home. My dad would die in that house years later, but it was never home to me. It was the place where the furniture landed after the life had already happened somewhere else.

I never got to pack my own things. I never got a final walkthrough alone. I never got to say goodbye the way I wanted to say goodbye. It wasn’t cruel. It was life. My parents were doing what needed doing, and I was old enough to understand that, but not old enough to know what to do with the ache of it.

That is how it happens sometimes. People come and go. They die. They move away. Houses sell. The world doesn’t pause so you can stand in an empty bedroom and negotiate with the wallpaper. You don’t always get the closure you think you’re owed.

What I got instead was everything my parents couldn’t let go of. My parents were raised during the Depression. Their parents lived it. Nobody in that lineage looked at a coffee can full of screws and thought, “Well, that has served its purpose.” A few months after my dad died, I bought my first house and acquired many of my parents’ things, especially the kind of things you need when you are starting out in a home of your own. Furniture. Dishes. Tools. The practical leftovers of a life already lived, now put to work for a life just beginning.

Six months later, my grandmother died, my mother’s mother, and I inherited some of hers as well. Less than a year after my dad died, my mother downsized to a small two-bedroom condo and gave me the practical Midwestern version of estate planning: come get it or it’s getting thrown away. That was when the books came. The voracious reader’s library. His slides and eight-millimeter movies. His tools and his father’s name tag from Firestone, which I still have. Artwork and furniture and knickknacks. Dishes and silverware. A Vikings helmet lamp. A trumpet lamp. Complete sets of nails and screws and bolts that I would never use.

Even my fifth grade spelling book came along.

It all traveled from the childhood home to my parents’ new home, then to my house in Canton, then to my first marital home, and finally to the dream house. I moved it from one location to another, rarely using it the way it was meant to be used. Deep down, I believed that holding onto their things would keep them alive. If I let the objects go, I feared I would lose them all over again.

When my wife and I got married, there were tense moments. She said no, not everything comes with us. My fifth grade spelling book had to go. But I got to keep the report on the platypus, because a man has to draw the line somewhere.

My wife was not so much happy with the purge as she tolerated the settlement. She was practical. She saw boxes. I saw my father’s hands, my mother’s handwriting, and my grandparents’ stubborn Depression-era refusal to throw away anything that might someday be useful to someone, somewhere.

I tried to explain to my wife what it was like to lose a parent. Both of hers were living then and are living still. Mine have been gone for most of our married life. That wasn’t her fault, of course. It was just one of those uneven facts marriage has to absorb. She could sympathize, but she could not yet know the strange arithmetic of grief, how a useless object can feel heavier than it is because it seems to contain a person you are not ready to lose again.

So she did what practical spouses have done since the beginning of time. She shoved my stuff into a closet so she didn’t have to look at it and waited for me to become a little less ridiculous.

Over the years, I did get better, although not quickly enough to be confused with personal growth in real time. About five or six years ago, I finally admitted another purge was necessary. Not a gentle Saturday afternoon of sorting. Not three tasteful donation boxes and a cup of coffee. I rented a full-size construction dumpster and gave myself about ten days.

I gave some of it away. I sold some of it. Most of it, if I am being honest, was junk that needed to go. I moved fast. I made decisions. I threw things away before memory could hire a lawyer and file an appeal.

That purge helped. It made the house lighter. It made me lighter too, although I probably wouldn’t have said it that way at the time. But it didn’t solve everything, because by then the collection had stopped being just theirs.

Over time, my wife and I added our own layers. Wedding gifts. Baby furniture. School projects. Sports equipment. Christmas decorations. Books of our own. Photos. Framed art. The boys’ trophies, toys, drawings, games, blankets, stuffed animals, and mysterious plastic things that apparently mattered deeply for six weeks in 2009 and then became permanent residents of the basement. The house became part grandparents, part parents, part us. It held four generations of memory, some of it beautiful, some of it useful, and some of it waiting patiently in a storage room for a purpose that was never coming.

That is what made the purging harder. We weren’t just deciding what to keep from my parents. We were deciding what to keep from everyone. Every box seemed to ask the same question in a different voice: Is this still part of the story, or is it just something we have been carrying because no one wanted to be the one to let it go?

Long before that final purging started, though, there was another house that taught me the same lesson the hard way. The cabin arrived when I was about twelve and remained in the family until I was in my mid-forties. We built it from scratch, another place meant to hold us. We skied. We snowmobiled. We did things there that I won’t itemize here, mostly because my parents are gone and I still prefer not to disappoint them retroactively. My dad had his first heart attack there shoveling snow. After that, we got a phone.

We gathered there sometimes for Christmas, often for New Year’s. College friends came. Law school friends came. I lived there one summer. The cabin became more than a structure in the Black Hills. It became the place I went when I needed to remember who I had been before life got complicated.

I brought my future wife there while we were dating. It was a test, although I doubt I admitted that out loud at the time. She needed to love the cabin, maybe not as much as I did, but at least a little. I tried to explain how important it was to me and how important the Black Hills were to me. She came from the plains, so naturally I called her a flatlander, because romance has many languages and mine apparently included mild geographic condescension.

She passed. She understood what the cabin meant, or at least understood that I needed it to mean something. We got married in the Black Hills, and we spent our first night together as husband and wife at the cabin. It wasn’t the first time she had been there, but it was the first time as my wife. I now shared the one place I had always felt at peace with the person I had chosen to spend my life with.

We went back often. We walked and hiked in the Black Hills. We took our kids there from the start. They loved it, except for the time my oldest hit a tree skiing and cracked his skull, which is the sort of family memory that starts as trauma and slowly becomes a story everyone somehow gets to tell at dinner. There was also a Christmas Eve when we drove to a small Episcopal church in Lead and experienced one of the most intimate and spiritual services I have ever been part of. The cabin was still the one place where everything felt right.

But the geography had shifted. When I was young, the cabin was only an hour away. It was a natural gathering place, close enough to be refuge rather than project. As I got older, as my own life expanded, five or six hours became the new distance. Every holiday and school break required a pilgrimage. What had been a refuge began to feel like an obligation. When my parents passed the cabin to me and my sister, and then eventually to me alone, I understood that I could not hold it the way they had.

Before we sold it, the cabin frequently appeared in my dreams. The dreams were not subtle. I would be there again, walking through rooms, looking for something, trying to keep the place intact. Sometimes, in the dreams, we had built additions. Other times, there were secret rooms I had somehow forgotten, or we had made modifications that changed the place without changing what it was. It was bigger, stranger, and not quite real, but it was still the cabin. I understood even then that the dreams were the part of me that could not let go.

Then I read Colt’s book. A family held a century-old summer home on Cape Cod through five generations and finally decided to sell it. The book understood the weight of that kind of place. It understood the guilt, the inheritance, the obligation, and the quiet relief that can come when a family finally admits that love and ownership are not the same thing.

It wasn’t quite the same attachment I see in my professional life, the kind a farmer feels for land that’s been in the family for generations. But it was an attachment. Different scale, same root.

Something in that story gave me permission. We sold the cabin. The dreams stopped. The letting go was real.

That lesson mattered because, by then, my wife and I had already built the next place we would someday have to release. In 2004, we decided to build our own house. We had gone to countless open houses looking for something that would work for our family, and nothing did. We hired an architect friend who listened to what we wanted. We found the builder. We found a lot in a new neighborhood. We extended ourselves beyond what we probably should have because we believed it was worth it.

It was a farmhouse with a Grand Hotel-inspired porch, modeled after the porch at the Grand Hotel on Mackinac Island, where we honeymooned after our wedding in the Black Hills. Each boy helped design his room. My wife had her space. I had mine. We built the house to fit us, not the other way around.

Christmas mornings happened there. Birthdays happened there. We gathered around the dining room table for dinners that mattered and around the kitchen counter for most of the meals that made up actual life. Both of our boys graduated from high school while living in that house. We took prom pictures there, everyone dressed up and pretending not to be nervous while parents took too many photos. My mother’s ashes spent a night there before we took her to Rapid City for burial. The boys had friends over and made noise in the basement. The house filled with the sound of boys becoming men.

But we always understood, at least in theory, what the house was for. We built it to hold a family while that family grew. We built it for bedrooms full of laundry, backpacks in the wrong places, friends in the basement, shoes by the door, and the daily racket of raising children. We didn’t build it as a museum. We didn’t build it as a monument. We built it for a chapter.

When our youngest left for college, we came home to rooms that were too empty, too quiet, and too big. We did some remodeling. The house remained the gathering point during holidays and school breaks, and for a while that was enough. But my wife and I had always talked about moving once the boys were gone. The house had done what we built it to do, even if admitting that felt like betrayal.

Four months ago, my wife and I looked at each other and said it was time. We got serious about fixing things, cleaning things, sorting things, and facing all the things we had carefully placed in closets so we could pretend they didn’t exist. We talked with a realtor. He gave us the comps. Then came the work no one puts in the real estate brochure: decluttering, painting, repairing, deciding, and standing in the garage wondering how two people had acquired enough stuff to provision a small expedition.

In the middle of that work, I found a stack of letters. My parents had written them to each other years before they married, back when they were dating and living in separate cities. I held them for a moment. I knew what the younger version of me would have done. He would have kept them without thinking. He would have placed them in a box, moved them three more times, and told himself he was preserving something sacred.

I resisted the urge to read them. They weren’t mine to read. Whatever my mother held onto them for, whatever reason she had for keeping them all those years, that reason had nothing to do with me.

I threw them away.

That wasn’t what made us decide to sell the house. We had already made that decision. But it felt like confirmation. My parents’ love for each other didn’t live in a stack of paper. It lived in the fact that I existed, that they built a life together, and that everything after those letters became the actual story. Keeping them wouldn’t have preserved their marriage. It would have given me one more box to carry.

And then, last week, the decision became real. The realtor came at 1:30. We sat at the kitchen counter, the same counter where we had eaten most of our family meals over twenty-two years, saving the dining room for special occasions, and we went through the paperwork like it was any other Tuesday. He asked if we were ready. My wife and I looked at each other and said yes.

The house had never looked better, which felt like its own strange joke. Twenty-two years of raising boys, and somehow the place looked its best on the day we decided to let it go.

The photographer showed up within the hour. She moved room to room while I stood in the kitchen not quite knowing what to do with my hands. The realtor left at 3:00. By 3:30, a text came through: a showing scheduled shortly after five. By 3:45, another text came, another showing shortly after six.

We couldn’t be there for it, so we did what we do. We grabbed Ginger and drove to the brew pub, the one we always end up at on Halloween, and ordered a couple of beers while trying to act like people who weren’t waiting on the biggest phone call of the year. Another text came in about a third showing. We stayed for three hours, longer than we meant to, because leaving felt like admitting something.

We got home. Not long after, the phone buzzed. We had an offer. Five hours. The house we built to raise a family in took less time to sell than it takes to watch a Vikings game go sideways in overtime.

Once we signed the purchase agreement, the work shifted immediately. We had done some preliminary looking already and had a basic idea of what we wanted next. Our realtor sent us fifty-six more choices. My wife and I went through every one of them, built a scorecard, made checklists, and narrowed the list to three we wanted to see in person.

But we already knew. A week after we sold our house, we made an offer on another one.

It won’t have room for all our stuff. That’s fine. We will make new memories there instead of trying to force the old ones into every closet and drawer. There will still be enough room for the boys to visit, even if it’s smaller than what they grew up in. My dad grew up with four siblings in a house that would make this one look enormous. You can fit a lot of people into a house when the people matter more than the square footage.

The letters are gone. The spelling book is gone. Most of the nails and bolts and knickknacks are gone too. What remains is what matters: my wife, the boys, Ginger, and thirty years of memories that never really lived in a box or a drawer or an attic in the first place.

My wife keeps asking me which things I want to keep. For a long time, that question would have sent me into a spiral. Now I tell her the truth: it doesn’t matter anymore. We keep what we need to keep. We throw away what we need to throw away. We give away or sell the rest. It’s not indifference. It’s the opposite of indifference. It’s finally understanding what the things were never able to hold in the first place.

I am sure I will be emotional over the next few weeks as we say goodbye to this house room by room and closet by closet. But I have been through this before. I know now, in a way I didn’t know at twenty-two, that leaving doesn’t mean losing. The memories come with me because they never needed the house’s permission in the first place.

Most of what I write is for me. It helps me think through things I haven’t fully worked out yet, and if someone else reads it and takes something away, that’s a bonus I don’t take for granted. But this one is different. This one I hope my boys read.

To my boys, if you ever read this: the house is gone, but you are not. Christmas morning still happened. Your friends still laughed in that basement. Your mother and I still watched you grow from boys into men inside those rooms. A sold sign cannot change that. A deed cannot erase it. A key can be handed to someone else, but a childhood cannot.

You can sell a house. You cannot sell a family. We are still us. We will always be us.

Colt taught me that in a bookstore in 2007, before I understood why I needed to know it. The cabin taught me again when the dreams finally stopped. Now, with boxes half packed and a new front door waiting, I know it one more time.

The house did its job. It’s somebody else’s turn now.

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What We Owe the Next Generation

I was still staring at a blank screen when the first one went off.

It wasn’t a gentle reminder that the Fourth was approaching. It was a concussive bang, the kind that travels through the window glass and lands somewhere in your chest before your brain has time to process it. Then several more in quick succession. I pushed back from the desk and looked outside, already composing the old man complaint in my head. In another neighborhood, in another part of the world, I might not have assumed fireworks. That thought crossed my mind before the ordinary explanation arrived, which probably says something about the times we live in and the age I have reached.

Then I saw the kids running across the yard, my yard, chasing the parachutes, those little plastic soldiers drifting down through the summer air. Every one of them was laughing. Pure, uncomplicated, this-is-the-best-day-of-my-life laughing. The kind you can hear through glass. I had to actively suppress the get-off-my-lawn instinct that apparently arrived sometime in my fifties without asking permission. The old man complaint dissolved before I could finish writing it, because the sound had annoyed me before I understood it, and their laughter corrected me.

It pulled me back to the version of myself who would have run just as hard across someone else’s grass, because parachutes falling out of the sky felt like a miracle and property lines were an adult invention. I remembered, not as an abstraction, not as something that happened to someone younger who used to be me, but the way you remember something in your body first. A lake. A trailer that my grandparents called a cabin, which was generous. Fireworks reflecting off the surface of Mina Lake while the summer dark came down around us, and a boy who would have been running too.

* * *

Mina Lake is different now. The cabins have become homes, the kind with proper foundations and square footage and lake frontage that costs what it costs. But when I was growing up, my grandparents had what they called a cabin, which had been, as best I can tell, a repurposed food trailer. Small enough that changing clothes required optimism about personal space. I’m told it was the first cabin on the lake, which I choose to believe makes it historic rather than humble.

Every Fourth of July, we drove six hours to get there. One uncle lived nearby and was always there. My uncle from Michigan often made the trip. My aunt came from Missouri. Another uncle moved wherever Boeing needed missiles pointed at something, Montana, Wyoming, Washington state, and he came too. Most of the cousins came, not all, but most. My grandpa had some contraption rigged for fishing that would alert him when something took the line, which struck me as ingenious. One year, one of my uncles brought a boat, and the lucky ones got rides. I still remember that as the year the lake got bigger.

Mostly, I remember everybody being happy. I know this partly because of photographs. Everybody smiling. The lake behind them. A boy squinting into the summer sun who would grow up to be me. At some point the day would wind down and we’d head back into Aberdeen, to Grandma and Grandpa’s house or a hotel, and the lake would go quiet behind us.

My grandpa died in 1982, and the tradition died with him. I don’t remember anyone announcing that. Families rarely hold a meeting to declare that something beautiful is over. One year it is simply gone, and only later do you understand that what felt like a place was really a person. Mina Lake was the cabin, the cousins, the boat rides, and the fireworks on the water. But mostly it was Grandpa, and when he was gone, the lake was never quite the same.

* * *

When Mina Lake faded out, the Fourth did not disappear. It relocated. Families do that. Traditions rarely announce their retirement. They just move to another yard, another grill, another set of adults pretending they are in charge. For us, that meant family friends in Rapid City, people whose lives had been braided into ours long enough that the distinction between friends and family was mostly technical.

Our families had been neighbors once, built our houses at the same time with the same builder. The houses were similar without being the same, the same era of carpet, comparable doorknobs and railings, enough shared DNA that walking into their house felt familiar in a way you couldn’t quite explain. All the parents have since passed. Most of the kids moved away. But one still lives in that house, nearly fifty years after it was built, which is either a testament to loyalty or to really good construction, and probably both.

Their house was a beautiful ranch sitting above a canyon, with a swimming pool and a view that made you feel like the whole Black Hills had been arranged for your personal enjoyment. The Fourth of July there was simple in the way that only childhood can make things simple. Kids swam. Kids shot fireworks into the canyon under the loose supervision of adults who were doing what adults do at summer parties, which is to say they were drinking and preparing food and pretending to watch us more carefully than they were. In retrospect, it’s amazing there were no fires.

One of us dropped a lit punk into a bag of fireworks once, which nearly caused several simultaneous cardiac events among the adults who were supposedly supervising. At some point the food appeared. At some point we ate. At some point we went home. The fireworks arced out over the canyon and disappeared into the dark, and nobody thought much about what any of it meant. That was the point. You didn’t have to think about what it meant. It just was.

That is how the Fourth felt to me then: noise, food, water, cousins, smoke, and adults who seemed to know what they were doing. I had no sense that the country itself could be tired, or divided, or unsure of what came next. I had no sense that adults were often improvising while hoping the children mistook it for confidence. I had inherited the celebration before I inherited the complication.

* * *

I remember the bicentennial. I was under ten, which meant I understood the festive parts and none of the complicated ones. Red, white, and blue everywhere. Commemorative quarters that felt like holding history in your palm. The $2 bill made a comeback that year, and people collected them because they were certain the bills would be worth something someday. I still have several. They never really caught on, except at a small bar in Pierre, South Dakota, where you can still spend one today, which feels like exactly the right fate for a $2 bill.

What I didn’t understand at the time, though I’ve since filled it in, was that the country was in rough shape. A president had resigned in disgrace two years earlier. The fall of Saigon had happened the previous spring, a war ending not with victory but with helicopters leaving a rooftop. Inflation was eating at everything. It was an election year, and nobody felt particularly good about their choices. The country was celebrating its 200th birthday with the enthusiasm of someone who needed the party more than the cake.

And yet, the flags were everywhere. The quarters were in every pocket. That fall, my family got on a plane and flew to the British Isles for three weeks. Even the passport was bicentennial themed, red, white, and blue, as if the government wanted to make sure you remembered what year it was every time you opened it. A kid from South Dakota visiting the people we’d spent 200 years being independent from. If that isn’t optimism, I don’t know what is.

* * *

Years later, when Wanda and I had children of our own, I don’t think I consciously set out to recreate any of that. Parents rarely do. We just reach for the pieces that still glow and hope our kids will remember them someday with more grace than accuracy. The place changed again, because traditions keep moving until they find a place to land. For us, for a long time, that place was Mackinac Island.

Wanda and I spent our honeymoon on Mackinac Island and went back every year for the next thirteen years. We’ve returned a few times since. The island gets into you that way. Someone told us early on about the Fourth of July celebration at the Grand Hotel and Fort Mackinac. An old-fashioned picnic and carnival, they called it, and that’s exactly what it was. Kids playing games from the late 1800s. Hot dogs and hamburgers. Nathan’s Hot Dog Eating Contest on whatever television they could find, because some traditions require witnesses. The kind of carnival where you swung a hammer as hard as you could and tried to ring the bell at the top, which nobody ever did, but that was never really the point.

One year our youngest played the same carnival game over and over until he won a Detroit Lions football. The determination required for that achievement was either admirable or concerning, and probably both. We took our oldest when he was about ten. Later we brought the whole family. And when our youngest was about ten, he got his own trip too.

In the evening you dressed for dinner, because that’s what you do at the Grand Hotel, and afterward everyone gathered on the long porch to watch the fireworks launch from barges out on Lake Huron. The barges were hidden behind tall Norwegian pines. You’d hear the launch, sometimes catch a trail of light climbing through the dark, and then wait for the explosion to bloom right in front of you, eye level with the porch, which is as close to fireworks as a person should reasonably get.

The year we brought the whole family it was foggy. You heard the launch. You saw a bright flash somewhere in the gray. That was mostly it. Our four-year-old rendered the official verdict: rip off. He wasn’t wrong, but we went back anyway, because that is what families do when they are building memories. They overpay, overdress, misjudge the weather, take the same pictures, tell the same stories, and hope that some small part of it sticks.

* * *

But inheritance is not only made of lake water, canyon smoke, porch lights, carnival games, and children declaring things a rip off. Some things are handed down because they are joyful. Others are handed down because forgetting them would be dangerous. Eventually, if we are lucky, someone teaches us that the celebration and the complication belong to the same story.

In my senior year at Augustana, a January term capstone course took a group of us to Minneapolis for a few days. One morning we visited a Holocaust center where survivors came to speak. I remember a woman who survived Auschwitz. I remember she rolled up her sleeve. I spoke with her. I don’t remember exactly what she said. What I remember is that she chose to be there, and that it cost her something to show up, and that she did it anyway.

I think about my dad’s cousin who shot down 24 Japanese planes in World War II. I think about a former law partner who never knew his father because he was killed before his son was born. I think about standing on Little Round Top and Cemetery Ridge at Gettysburg and trying to understand what it cost to hold that ground, and failing, because some things can’t be understood from a distance. You can only stand there and feel the weight of it.

Freedom isn’t free. That phrase gets said so often it’s stopped meaning anything, which is its own kind of tragedy. The people who actually paid for it didn’t get to say it. They just paid. These aren’t abstract debts. They’re personal ones. She showed up anyway. She kept saying not today. And because enough people across enough generations made the same decision, we’re still here, still arguing about what the experiment means, still shooting fireworks into canyons and watching them explode at eye level over Lake Huron.

* * *

Maybe that is why monuments matter when they are doing their job. Not because they settle the argument, but because they force us to stand still long enough to remember there is an argument worth having. I grew up thirty miles from Mount Rushmore, close enough to stop seeing it and old enough now to understand that was my mistake. I’ve seen it hundreds of times, in every season, in every light. There’s a version of it you stop noticing, the way you stop noticing anything that’s always been there. And then something shifts and you see it again, really see it, and it stops you cold.

Years ago I was fortunate enough to get a private tour that took me to the top of the monument. I sat on George Washington’s head. I don’t say that to be glib. I say it because there is no way to be in that place and not feel the full weight of what was carved out of that granite, and why, and what it cost. At some point I also appeared in a scene filmed there for General Hospital, which is either the most South Dakota thing that has ever happened to me or the least, depending on how you look at it.

What Gutzon Borglum started in 1927 transformed Western South Dakota. It still does. Every year millions of people make the drive through the Black Hills and stand at the base of those four faces and feel something they didn’t expect to feel. Last night, on the eve of America’s 250th birthday, Mount Rushmore became one of the places chosen to mark the moment. Of all the places in America, it was there. The Black Hills of South Dakota. Four faces carved into granite. A monument to an experiment that was never supposed to work and somehow keeps working anyway, imperfectly, stubbornly, at great cost.

There ought to be a day, at least one, when the labels get set down for a while. Not because everything is fine. Not because we agree on what the country has been or what it should become. We don’t. We never have. But in 1976, when the country had real reasons to doubt itself, people put on their bicentennial shirts and collected their quarters and celebrated anyway. Not because everything was fine. Because the alternative was unthinkable.

But countries are not preserved only at monuments. They are preserved, or neglected, in neighborhoods. They are preserved in whether we remember that the kid running across the lawn is not an interruption of the day, but part of the reason the day exists. They are preserved when someone keeps lighting the grill, keeps inviting the cousins, keeps making the drive, keeps telling the story, keeps showing up even after the person who started the tradition is gone.

* * *

By the time you read this, I will have clipped Ginger’s leash and we will have walked. The neighborhood quiet, the way it only is before the day remembers what day it is. Flags on porches. An empty street. The smell of something someone is already putting on a grill at an unreasonable hour.

This is what I’ll think about. A boy at Mina Lake watching fireworks reflect off the water. A canyon in Rapid City and a lit punk dropping into a bag of fireworks and several adults suddenly remembering they were supposed to be supervising. A foggy night on the porch of the Grand Hotel and a four-year-old’s verdict. A woman in a room in Minneapolis who survived Auschwitz, who rolled up her sleeve, and showed a kid from South Dakota what the cost of forgetting looks like.

Two hundred and fifty years. The experiment continues. Not because it’s easy. Not because we always get it right. But because enough people, in enough generations, decided to show up anyway.

Tonight, throughout America, kids will be out with sparklers and firecrackers, chasing parachutes across their neighbors’ lawns. There will be people annoyed by the noise. There will be people wishing everyone would just get off their lawn. That’s part of it. That’s always been part of it. Let them have the noise for a night. Let them have the parachutes. Let them believe, for a few more years, that the whole thing is as simple as sparks in the dark and people gathered nearby.

Show up anyway.

* * *

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The Bridge at Henley

A few weeks ago I wrote about a walk to Paddington Station, and then a walk back. The reason for the trip, I said, was to buy train tickets to Henley-on-Thames. That was true, as far as it went. But if you’ve been reading this series, you might have wondered what Henley actually meant. The tickets were the cover. My friend was the reason. She was also, if I’m being completely honest, the reason for the course itself, and every course I tried to build before it, and every course I’ve sketched out since. She just didn’t know that until now.

Henley-on-Thames had no particular connection to Brexit when I chose it. If I’d been purely academic about it, I might have taken the students to Birmingham or Coventry, cities in the West Midlands that recorded some of the highest Leave percentages in the country. That would have been genuinely instructive. The area around Henley, as it turns out, voted roughly 55 percent to Remain. I could have taken them somewhere that felt the full weight of the Brexit argument, somewhere that might have actually changed how they understood it. I didn’t. I picked Henley.

The Brexit connection was there, if you wanted to work hard enough to find it. Theresa May represented nearby Maidenhead, Boris Johnson once held the Henley seat in Parliament, and I once spotted Rishi Sunak at the Leander Club in Henley. But I didn’t know any of that when I chose it. That came later, the kind of justification you construct after the fact to make a personal decision look like a professional one. The real reason was simpler. None of those other places had her in them.

None of that mattered on the morning of the trip. What mattered was twenty students in a hotel lobby near Waterloo, two tickets each, and a train to catch.

We did this three times. Three different courses, three different years, but it always started the same way, in a hotel lobby near Waterloo, me handing out two tickets to each student. One for the way out, one for the way back. I told them every time: lose either one and the train fare comes out of your own pocket. Nobody ever lost one, not in three years, though I watched a few of them pat their jacket pockets all the way down to the tube just to be sure.

I had some unpopular rules on my courses. No jeans, no trainers, no hoodies, no baseball caps. I wanted them to blend in rather than stick out, and I know it frustrated plenty of them at the start. By the time we got there, I think most of them understood why. Henley was a different level. Just short of a black tie affair. It was the one day of the course I put on a jacket and tie myself. In that same lobby, before we headed for the tube, I’d give them the rest of it. Nice dinner tonight. Old friends of mine. Be gracious guests. Don’t be the ugly American. Come with at least one question ready, something real, something that shows you were listening and not just eating. A couple of those questions I planted myself, quietly, with a student I trusted to ask them well. I never told them how nervous I was. The day needed to go right, the tour, the dinner, all of it, but underneath that I was about to see my friend and her family again, and some part of me was always braced for the year that wouldn’t go as smoothly as the last.

From Waterloo we’d take the tube to Paddington, then the train out toward Henley, changing at Twyford for the last short hop in. I’d count heads at every handoff like a man counting cards, watching backpacks and the occasional dress shoe shuffle across the gap between trains. We never lost anyone. Not once.

She was waiting at the station every time. Forty-some years since she’d lived in our house the year of the Jubilee, since she’d been the exchange student who became something closer to family than guest, and there she’d be on the platform at Henley, easy to spot, easy to find. She’d arranged much of the day herself, never once complaining about any of it. I knew it took real work. I’m not sure I ever adequately thanked her.

I’d put my hand on a shoulder or two and start the introductions. My students, my friend. My sister, in the only sense of the word that really matters.

She’d walk us into town herself, City Hall first, almost always. Main Street the whole way, small shops on both sides, the street sometimes set up for market day in a way that reminded me of Lower Marsh back in London. City Hall sat at the far end with its clock tower, red brick, pale stone, and the quiet confidence of a building that knew exactly what it was. The tour was another favor, one phone call from her that meant the world. Most years it was the Mayor waiting for us. One year the Mayor was unavailable, and we got the utility superintendent instead, which turned out to be just as useful, maybe more so, because he could explain how the town actually worked. Inside, the building had dark wood, old portraits, and a hall upstairs that looked as if it had hosted a century of dances, council votes, and arguments about parking. Whoever led the tour would explain what was on the docket that month, and then, almost every year, offer the same gentle punchline: Brexit, the whole reason we were there, wasn’t going to change much of anything in Henley. I watched that land on their faces every time, the small recalibration of a student who had assumed the thing they came to study was the only thing happening.

More often than not, the local paper was waiting for us when we came back down. A reporter wanting a few words from the Americans, what they’d come to study, what they made of the town so far. They ran stories about it in the Henley Standard more than once — the first year and again in the second. I never asked whether she’d contacted the paper. But I have my suspicions. It had her fingerprints on it, the same quiet phone call that got us the tour in the first place, one more thing handled before I even knew it needed handling.

Then I’d turn them loose. A couple of hours to wander, to find shops, to find a pub if they were old enough and bold enough. Most years they ended up down by the water, with the church tower standing watch beside it and the rowing clubs lined up along the river like they’d been waiting two centuries for the next regatta. The students would lean against the balustrade in their dinner clothes, taking pictures of each other with the Thames behind them. I’d see the photos later. Always the same easy grins, always a little wind in someone’s hair, always that river. Before they scattered, I gave them one more instruction: there’d be more guests at dinner, and they needed to be on their best behavior. I never had to say it twice.

That was my window. For a couple of hours, the trip changed shape. Her husband was there, and so was my co-teacher, but it no longer felt like I was leading a course. I don’t remember the specific conversations anymore. What I remember is how welcome we were made to feel, every single time, the same way my own parents had made her feel welcome in our house all those years ago when she was the one far from home. It evens out that way sometimes, across forty years and an ocean, without anyone planning it. It was the one stretch of adult conversation in three weeks otherwise spent keeping twenty-year-olds alive, punctual, dressed, fed, and pointed in the right general direction. I loved being around my students, but three weeks is a long stretch, and we were at different points in our lives wanting different things from the day. Those two hours were the quiet in the middle of all that noise.

For years before Brexit ever entered the picture, I wanted to teach a study abroad course mostly so I could get back to England and see my friend, my sister in every way that matters, under the respectable cover of academic purpose. I spent a long time trying to come up with course ideas that would actually fit a business program at a small liberal arts university. Comparative management. Comparative law. A course tracing Charles Dickens through legal London, courtrooms and debtors’ prisons and all. None of them ever quite found a curriculum to live in.

Then Brexit happened, and the course found me instead. A country legally untangling a forty-year marriage, businesses scrambling to prepare for a divorce nobody had a precedent for. It was real. It was academic. It belonged in a business law classroom, and I could defend every line of it without blinking. The course was genuinely about Brexit. But the reason I’d spent years looking for a course in the first place had nothing to do with the EU at all.

The quiet part of the day always had to give way to the official part again. The students would come back from the river and the shops and whatever pub they’d decided they were mature enough to enter, and I’d become the professor again, counting heads, checking collars, reminding them that dinner was still part of the course even if it came with better wine than anything listed on the syllabus.

Dinner was at Hotel du Vin every year. She recommended it, and for a long time I assumed it was just a place big enough to fit the group. It wasn’t until I dug a little deeper that I learned the building sits on the old Brakspear Brewery grounds, brick and beer and old English usefulness still there underneath the polish. It tied the dinner to Henley as something more than a pretty riverside town: commerce, beer, brick, work, reinvention. The hotel is modern. The bones aren’t. I don’t know for certain, but I can’t help thinking it was intentional all along, one more thing she’d quietly arranged without ever mentioning it.

The room barely fit us, every year, and it was often quite warm, the way old buildings get when you pack too many people into a beautiful room and then pretend candles and wine are a climate-control strategy. My friend and her husband joined us every year, along with anywhere from two to four other local adults she’d brought in to sit with the students. On a good night we had nearly thirty people in a room that was meant for twenty. Stone walls scrubbed pale, low black beams strung with tiny lights, candles down the center of a long white table. Same wine selection, same students cleaned up and trying hard, sitting a little straighter than usual and pretending they ate dinner like that all the time. We all knew most of them would have been just as happy with the McDonald’s at Waterloo Station. The conversation changed every year, because the country kept changing. One thing never did. We always ended up ordering a few more bottles than we’d planned on.

The dinners were never lectures, and they were never debates in the way we think of debates now, with everyone waiting for their turn to reload. People disagreed about whether Brexit was wise or foolish, whether it would be painful or merely inconvenient, whether it was about sovereignty, economics, immigration, nostalgia, or some combination of all of it. But the conversation stayed civil, polite, and entirely British. Nobody shouted. Nobody performed outrage for the room. People listened, answered, disagreed, and then reached for the wine bottle like grown-ups.

The first year, Brexit was still young enough to argue about in the abstract. Henley came near the end of the course, the day after Paris, which had only a loose claim on Brexit beyond the EU connection but the students loved it anyway. I’d recruited most of that group myself, and they were quieter than the ones who came after, more curious than opinionated. The British guests at the table were, on the whole, hopeful. It might not be that bad, someone said. One man put it more honestly than anyone else managed all three years: in my heart I was for Brexit, but in my head I knew it was bad. Nobody at the table disagreed with him out loud.

The second year, Brexit had moved from theory to machinery. We went to Henley early, while the students were still fresh and fully engaged with the material. Parliament was in the thick of it, and I watched a student prop her phone against a water glass during dinner, earbuds in, watching the vote happen in real time an hour away while the table talked around her. The optimism from the first dinner had curdled into something closer to exhaustion, though there was still hope a good exit deal could be found. More wine that year too.

The third year, Brexit was no longer a question. It was a date on the calendar. Henley came toward the end again, but this time as the first stop on a three-leg road trip, Henley, then Paris, then an overnight in Chester, the only year we ever made it there. We were within two weeks of the UK formally leaving. Nobody was hopeful anymore, just tired and practical, working through the logistics of a thing that was already decided. The highlight of that dinner, for me, had nothing to do with Brexit at all. One of the students that year had gone to the same high school I had, the same high school my friend had gone to the year she lived with us. Three of us, decades and an ocean apart, all from the same hallways, sitting at the same table in Henley. A reminder of how closely we’re all tied together in this world. We ordered more wine that night too.

I always knew the train times. I always knew exactly when we needed to leave. As that moment got closer every year, some part of me wanted time to slow down, and every year it refused. There was never enough time. There never is. We’d reluctantly finish the last bottle of wine, say our goodbyes at the door, and walk back through town to the station for the long ride home to London.

Three dinners, three years, three versions of a country trying to decide who it wanted to be. That was the course I put on the syllabus. But the part I remember best was never the vote or the lectures or the long train rides back to London. It was a friend who showed up every time without being asked twice. It was students leaning into the river wind, dressed better than they wanted to be, and then showing up at dinner with more curiosity and grace than I probably gave them credit for ahead of time. They asked better questions than I expected. They listened more carefully than I expected. They treated my friends with the kind of care that made me proud to have brought them there. Henley was not just a place I took them. It was a place they helped me see again.

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Aged Thirty Years

I had a birthday this week. Tomorrow is Father’s Day. This is always a complicated time of year, and this one has been harder than most to put into words.

If you’ve been reading this blog for a while, you’ve heard parts of this story before. The golf course. The note. The phone call. I’ve written about this day before. But thirty years asks for more. This year I wanted to go further. Not just what happened, but who he was. And what it’s like to figure that out without him.

Thirty years ago, my birthday fell on a Saturday. The next day was Father’s Day. I was on the golf course when someone handed me a note written in red ink. Five words: Paramedics called. Call your mom at home.

I went back to the clubhouse. This was before cell phones were common, and they let me make a long distance call to my mother. I think they knew what I was about to learn. She told me “Your father had another heart attack and he isn’t doing very well.” We said a few more words. I don’t remember all of them. Then she told me the ambulance was taking him to the funeral home.

I drove to my parents’ home. Twenty-five minutes. When I arrived, my birthday presents were sitting out. We had been planning a celebration. There wouldn’t be one that day. There was a funeral to plan instead.

Grief, it turns out, comes with logistics. Two services in two towns 350 miles apart. Countless people to notify, arrangements to make, decisions that shouldn’t have to be made at all. His death was so sudden there hadn’t been time to plan anything. We found ourselves picking out burial plots in the cemetery where I had learned to ride a bike. Four of them, side by side. Three are now occupied. One remains. A lot of that planning happened on Father’s Day.

In the middle of it, I needed to get away for a little while. Not far. Just somewhere I could breathe without answering another question or making another decision. I went back to my own home, an apartment attached to a monument shop. That’s when I found it. The Father’s Day card I had already bought, signed, sealed, and set aside. That was not like me. I am usually the guy buying the card the day before, or the morning of, hoping the selection has not been picked clean. But that year, for reasons I still don’t know, I had bought it early. I had written in it. I had done the responsible thing. And now the last Father’s Day card I would ever buy had nowhere to go except with him. It was buried with him.

Father’s Day has never been simple since. Neither has my birthday. They arrive within days of each other every year, and every year they carry the weight of that one. Four times since he died, including the very first anniversary, my birthday and Father’s Day have fallen on the same day. I don’t have a word for what that feels like. I’m not sure one exists.

I don’t know that I can say I know who he was. Maybe none of us ever fully know our parents that way. But thirty years of life have given me more perspective than I had then. I understand more about him now than I did as his son standing in the wreckage of that week. Two of his siblings are still alive, and they could probably tell me even more. That is part of the strange work of grief, too. You keep learning about someone after they are gone. Family. Old friends. Coworkers. Former patients. I’ve heard stories about him from people I barely know. My favorite came from a man who shook my hand and said, “I knew your dad. He did my vasectomy.” I didn’t know what else to say, so I asked how it turned out.

My dad’s name was Russell. He was the oldest child, or so I always believed, and he acted like it his whole life. It wasn’t until we buried my grandfather, his father, that I learned the truth. There had been another child born before him. A baby who didn’t survive. My dad had spent his entire life as the oldest surviving child, carrying that weight without ever fully being the firstborn.

He was a surgeon, and like a lot of surgeons, he was gifted with his hands. He could build things, fix things, figure out what was broken and make it right. He was also a perfectionist. That is exactly what you want in a surgeon. It is not always what you want in a dad.

He tried to teach me some of what he knew, but teaching did not come as naturally to him as doing. I remember being about ten years old, mowing the lawn, and having him inspect it afterward with a surgeon’s eye for the imperfect line and the missed blade of grass. These were errors in a side yard at the end of a long private driveway. Nobody would ever see them. But to him, they mattered. Every project was like that. I never developed any real interest in working with my hands, building things, or fixing things. It wasn’t that the work itself felt beneath me. It was that something in me tensed up every time I picked up a tool, already worrying about the feedback if it wasn’t perfect.

When he died, I kept most of his tools. At the time, I told myself it was practical and valuable. Good tools are worth keeping. He certainly thought so. Every Sunday he would comb through the Sears newspaper ads looking for a deal on a new power tool. If he found one, he would dream up a project that justified the purchase. The tool came first. The reason came after. But the truth is, I kept his tools mostly as a way to keep him.

Over the years, I gave most of them away to people who would use them. That felt better than I expected. There is something good about knowing his tools are still fixing things, still building things, still in the hands of people who know what to do with them.

I still have some of them. This week, I used a few to fix a leaky faucet. I wish I were better at that kind of thing. I wish I cared more about it. But I don’t, not really. Maybe that is because of how he taught me. Maybe it is because of how I am made. Most likely, it is some combination of both. What I know is that even now, standing by a sink with a wrench in my hand, I can still feel the old pressure to get it right on the first try.

And when my own sons were old enough, I didn’t make them mow the lawn. I didn’t teach them how to build things or fix things, either. Maybe that was the wrong choice. But I couldn’t teach what I didn’t know how to do, and I didn’t want them to feel what I had felt. I didn’t want a missed blade of grass, a leaky faucet, or a failed first try to become something larger than it needed to be.

Times are different now. If they need to fix something, they can find a video, ask a question, or follow instructions I never had at my fingertips. But part of me still wonders whether I protected them from frustration or quietly passed along my own fear of it. How do you know what you should teach, what you should push, and what you should let them learn on their own? That is the kind of question I wish I could have asked my father.

What he left behind was not only tools, and the inheritance was not only fear. He left behind standards too. Some useful. Some heavy. Some I wanted to carry. Some I spent years trying not to pass along. And I also remember who he was when he was there.

My father believed in hard work. Not the performance of it, not the talking about it, but the actual showing up and doing the thing in front of you until it was done right.

I remember trying to learn how to water ski. I didn’t enjoy it. I wasn’t having fun. I wanted to be done. My father yelled at me and said that wasn’t the point. The point was learning a new skill, learning how to do something difficult, and taking pride in knowing you could do it. He was right, probably. I did learn how to water ski. But I never learned to enjoy it.

That was one of the complicated things about him. Sometimes the lesson was right, even when the delivery made it harder to receive. He believed competence mattered. He believed doing hard things mattered. He believed there was value in knowing you could do something, even if you never particularly wanted to do it again.

He also believed in integrity, in treating every person you encounter with basic human respect regardless of who they are or what they can do for you. Those weren’t lessons he delivered in speeches. They were just how he lived.

He was generous in ways he didn’t always announce. Our home was open to my friends. He would be there in his chair after a long day, a cigarette in one hand, a book or newspaper in the other, and a martini, scotch, or whatever drink was in rotation sitting not too far away. In hindsight, the fire safety plan may have needed some work. He might pull you into a conversation about politics, argue his side hard, and still expect everyone to be friends the next morning. If we went out to dinner, he paid. Every time, without discussion.

We also had two foreign exchange students live with us for a year. That is not a small thing. Adding another child to a house is expensive, inconvenient, and disruptive in ways people don’t always see from the outside. He did it anyway. He welcomed them, included them, and made them feel like family. That was his generosity, too. Not loud. Not sentimental. But real.

He was not without contradictions. He understood some of his own shortcomings, or at least enough of them to try to warn me away from the same mistakes. I came to think of those warnings as Russisms. He would point at me with a lit cigarette, take a deep drag, and tell me not to smoke because it was bad for me. Or he would swirl a martini, take a sip, and pronounce the dangers of alcohol and why I should avoid it. At the time, I probably heard the hypocrisy more than the wisdom. Now I hear something else. A man who knew his own weaknesses and hoped his son might not have to carry them.

Looking back, I think the Russisms were less about the cigarettes and the martinis and more about something harder to say out loud. They were the advice he wished someone had given him. The mistakes he had already made, handed back to me in the form of a warning. He couldn’t always fix what was broken in himself. But maybe I could avoid some of it. That was the hope, anyway. It usually is.

He was a dedicated physician in ways I didn’t fully understand when I was young. You don’t appreciate that kind of commitment when you’re a kid watching your father leave for the hospital at strange hours. You understand it later, when you’re the patient, sitting across from a doctor and hoping with everything you have that this person actually cares about what happens to you. My father was that doctor. I know that now in a way I couldn’t then.


In his later years, after four heart attacks and a forced retirement from medicine, my father began to soften. He tried breadmaking. It didn’t go well, and I think part of him knew it, but he made it anyway. That was new. The man who had inspected a lawn with a surgeon’s eye for the imperfect line was now standing in a kitchen, covered in flour, making something that didn’t turn out right and living with it.

He also showed more outward empathy. He let things go that he wouldn’t have let go before. And in the weeks before he died, he called me just to talk. No agenda. No news to deliver. Just his voice on the phone, checking in. The dad I grew up with never did that. I didn’t know how much I needed it until it wasn’t there.

So what he left behind was also unfinished. The conversations that never happened. The phone calls I never got to make when life got hard. The chance to ask whether he had felt the same doubts, made the same mistakes, and wondered in the quiet moments whether he had gotten it right. I never got to tell him about my own shortcomings and hear him say he understood. And I never got to thank him. Not really. Not for the sacrifices he made, or the strange hours he kept, or the dedication he gave to his patients. I understand now that he did those things so our lives could be better.

He never met my wife. He never met my boys. He would have loved them and probably invented a couple more Russisms. They know him only through stories and a middle name. My youngest carries Russell as his middle name. It’s the closest thing I had to introducing them. It’s not enough. It never is. But it’s something.

Thirty years is a long time to figure something out on your own. Long enough that the figuring becomes the thing itself. I don’t know if I got fatherhood right. I tried to show up. I tried to work hard and keep my word and treat people the way my father taught me. I tried to pass along what was passed to me, even when I wasn’t sure I was doing it correctly. I may not have gotten everything right. But my boys have never once been anything other than the best thing I’ve done. And when I failed, which I did, there was no one to call who had walked this particular road before me.

My father was a connoisseur of scotch and other spirits. Maybe connoisseur is too fancy a word, but he knew what he liked and took some pleasure in understanding it. I have taken an interest in scotch, too. Some of that is taste. Some of it is ritual. Some of it, I suspect, is another way of keeping a small conversation with him going.

A thirty year scotch is not simply older than a fifteen year scotch or a ten year scotch. Time has done something to it. The sharper edges have softened. The heat is still there, but it does not hit the same way. What remains is deeper, smoother, more complicated. Still scotch, but different than it was.

Grief works that way, too. Thirty years have done something to this. Not all of it has burned off. Some of it never will. But the raw pain of that first Father’s Day, the one spent planning a funeral in a cemetery where I learned to ride a bike, has changed. What remains now is grief, yes, but also gratitude, understanding, and a kind of love that has had a long time to age.

Somewhere today there’s a golf course, and a note written in red ink, and a young man who doesn’t yet know what he’s about to learn. I think about him every year on this day. I think about what I’d tell him if I could.

Happy Father’s Day, Russ. I still have things to tell you. And thirty years later, I am still finding things you left behind.

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The Long Way Back from Paddington

The tickets were sorted. Now came the long way home.

Last week I wrote about the walk from Waterloo to Paddington, four miles across London on a free day while my students attempted to set the Guinness record for pub crawling. I had gone to Paddington for train tickets to Henley, but the walk back was never going to be the same walk in reverse. London had changed by then.

By the time I started back, the city was louder, the parks were fuller, and the quiet errand had become something closer to a full day’s walk. I was not trying to make good time. I was trying to notice. I reentered at the Italian Gardens, the formal ornamental garden at the northern tip of the Serpentine where Hyde Park and Kensington Gardens meet. The boundary between the two parks is blurry here, which is part of the charm. Stay west and you are in Kensington Gardens. Go east and you are in Hyde Park.

I usually went west first, toward Kensington Palace. The Albert Memorial comes into view on your left, an elaborate gilded monument with Royal Albert Hall rising behind it across the road. Then I would turn back east along the Serpentine. If instead you head south from the Italian Gardens, the path takes you past the Peter Pan statue, which has been standing there since 1912 and still draws people who stop longer than they expected to. Either way, you end up along the Serpentine, which by then was an afternoon walk, with the park busier, the light different, and my feet beginning to understand London better than my map did.

Keep your eyes up while you walk. Hyde Park has parakeets, bright green ones, darting through the trees. They are not native to England, and nobody knows for certain how they got there. The stories range from Jimi Hendrix releasing a pair on Carnaby Street in the 1960s to escapees from a film set. The truth is unclear. The birds are not. Eventually the park releases you. You come out near the back side of Buckingham Palace, which is where I would duck through rather than past the front.

Walking behind the palace, you find yourself in a neighborhood marked by a surprising number of international flags, the kind that signal embassies and consulates. If you know your flags, this is a good stretch to test yourself.

Eventually the consulates of Belgravia give way to Victoria, where each street seems to have been designed by a different century. Turn a corner and you move from Edwardian to Georgian. Turn another and you are in late Victorian. Turn one more and someone has dropped a modern building in without asking. London has always been like that. It should not work. It does.

The street names alone are worth the detour: Petty France, Buckingham Gate, Queen Anne’s Gate. Tucked among the townhouses are pubs with names that feel like they belong in a novel: The Old Star, The Adam and Eve, The Two Chairmen, The Feathers, The Phoenix. More than once I stopped for a late lunch, an afternoon snack, or a local beer. Nobody was in a hurry. Neither was I. Eventually I settled the bill, stepped back outside, and kept walking. A few blocks later I reached into my jacket to make sure the tickets were still there. They were. A few days from now, those tickets would put my students on a train to Henley, and me a few hours closer to someone I had been looking forward to seeing since before the term began. Then, without much warning, Westminster Abbey appeared above the roofline as if it had simply decided to be there. It stopped me every time. It still does.

I usually worked my way behind Westminster Abbey and then to Victoria Tower Gardens, a small park tucked at the south end of the Parliament building that most visitors never find. The gardens take you naturally down to Lambeth Bridge, which is nothing like Westminster Bridge and better for it.

Earlier in the day I had crossed Westminster Bridge, the green one, the postcard one, the one crowded with selfie sticks and people trying to prove they had been there. Lambeth Bridge is different. It is painted a deep red, supposedly to echo the benches of the House of Lords, just as Westminster Bridge echoes the green benches of the House of Commons. Maybe that is true. Maybe it is just one of those stories London tells because it sounds right. Either way, from the middle of Lambeth Bridge you get Parliament and Westminster Abbey without the crowd. The same landmarks, but from a quieter angle.

Once across, you have a choice. Head toward Lambeth Palace, the official London residence of the Archbishop of Canterbury and reportedly so for 800 years. I never saw him there. Or turn and walk along the Thames toward Westminster Bridge.

I usually took the river. The walk along the Thames after Lambeth Bridge is quiet and thoughtful in a way the outbound journey never is. The city has changed pace by now. Fewer people, a handful of street vendors, but no hustlers, no tour groups, and no one performing for anyone. The river moves beside you, and London lets you alone for a while. You follow the river until Westminster Bridge comes into view, and that is your signal to turn. From there it is a short walk back through the familiar landmarks: past the London Eye, back through Leake Street, up through Lower Marsh, and finally the hotel. By the time you walk through the door, you have covered nine to ten miles of one of the great cities in the world, more if you wandered, and your feet know it.

When I got back to the hotel, I carefully sorted and stored the tickets for the trip to Henley. After nine to ten miles of walking, I was ready to join my students for a pint at a nearby pub. Most of them had a head start. Though I should say, some of them had actually used the day the way I had hoped. A few went to the V&A Museum. Others made the pilgrimage to Abbey Road. There were always a couple who did something Harry Potter related, which I understood completely. Many went to pubs. We compared stories about our day.

I told them I had walked to Paddington to get the tickets to Henley. Then I told them a little about my friend. The woman who had lived with our family during the Silver Jubilee. The one who had made my life immeasurably better. Not the whole story. That would come later. For now, it was enough that Henley was getting closer.

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A Walk to Paddington

A professor, a free day in London, and a four-mile walk across one of the great cities in the world. From Lower Marsh to Leake Street, Westminster Bridge to Hyde Park, and finally Paddington. This is walking London the right way.

Every course I taught in London included free days on the weekend. The idea was simple. Let the students explore the city on their own terms. In practice, this meant most of them spent the better part of the day on an unorganized pub crawl, apparently attempting to set the Guinness record. As a professor I found this frustrating. But truth be told, when I was 20, I would have done the same thing.

On one of those free days, I had my own agenda. It was my favorite day of the course, just me and London getting to know each other a little better. The walk to Paddington was, on the surface, a practical errand. I needed to purchase train tickets so the students could visit Henley-on-Thames, a small and beautiful town about an hour outside the city, home of the famous regatta and, more importantly to me, people I deeply care about.

One of them had come into our family years earlier as an exchange student and somehow became something closer to a sister. I am not going to name her here, but she knows exactly who she is. She lived with us for a year during the Queen’s Silver Jubilee, and what started as a temporary stay became one of those rare relationships that keeps deepening instead of fading. Over the last twenty years, she and her family have become one of the better things in my life. The train tickets were the reason for the walk. She was the reason for the trip.

The walk is about four miles each way, but that number is misleading. Four miles in London is not four miles on a treadmill or four miles around a suburban walking path. It usually took me a couple of hours to get to Paddington and a couple of hours to get back. You do not rush a walk like this because there is too much to see. You stop for photographs. You pause on bridges. You stand in front of buildings longer than you planned. You let a street, a park, or a memorial interrupt you. That was the point.

Waterloo Station was about five minutes from the hotel, and I could have taken the Bakerloo line directly to Paddington and spent the rest of the day in a pub. But where’s the fun in that. If you have a free morning in London and a decent pair of shoes, this is how I would suggest spending it.

Before any long walk you need fuel. The Hampton Inn near Waterloo put out a full buffet breakfast, and I worked my way through it with some purpose. The scrambled eggs were, I’m fairly certain, made from powder, but after a cup of tea nobody was complaining. I passed on the beans. I understand this is a beloved British tradition. I have never understood it and I’m not going to pretend otherwise. The potato rounds, essentially flattened tater tots, were almost as good as a McDonald’s hashbrown, and that is not faint praise. I finished up, got myself sorted, and stepped outside into whatever London had waiting.

I turned right out of the Hampton Inn and headed up toward Lower Marsh, one of those streets guidebooks mention in passing and then move on from. That is a mistake. In the morning it is a market waking up. Stalls are being assembled. Vendors are arranging things. The smell of food is beginning to organize itself. The sights and smells remind you of a local fair or carnival from childhood, except this version has better coffee, better food, and no livestock barns. Lower Marsh feels more local than the better known markets, less performed, the kind of place where people actually shop rather than pose for photographs. When I was there it ran Monday through Saturday. These days it is weekdays only, probably another casualty of Covid. Come back on a Tuesday for lunch. You will not regret it.

From there I found my way to Leake Street, which is easy to miss and worth finding every time. At its most basic, it is a tunnel running underneath the outbound tracks of Waterloo Station. The entrance is unremarkable, which is part of the point. You step in and the city changes register entirely. Leake Street is maybe 300 yards long, and every wall belongs to graffiti. Not the scratched-out signatures of people marking territory, but actual art, full murals, color from floor to ceiling, work that changes regularly because other artists paint over it and start again. It smells like spray paint and old concrete. It sounds like your own footsteps. Walking through it early, before anyone else has found it that morning, is one of the genuinely strange pleasures London keeps tucked away.

Leake Street eventually opens onto York Road, near the London Eye and the Aquarium. From there you weave your way toward the Eye and eventually the Thames. This stretch of the South Bank is busy at almost any hour, but early on a Saturday morning in January you can have it largely to yourself, which makes it ideal for photographs. Westminster Bridge is worth visiting once. After that, unless you enjoy navigating around selfie sticks, wannabe influencers staging endless photo shoots, and the occasional pickpocket, there are better ways across the river.

But stop in the middle on your first time. The bridge is painted green, which is said to echo the green benches of the House of Commons, the chamber nearest the bridge. London loves that kind of detail, the sort of thing you can walk past a dozen times before finally noticing it. Then look upriver toward Parliament, the Elizabeth Tower with Big Ben rising over everything, and the water moving underneath. It is the postcard version of London, and the reason postcards exist.

The far side of the bridge drops you into Westminster, and you should take a moment before you go anywhere. You are standing at the heart of England. Parliament is to your left, Westminster Abbey just beyond it, the UK Supreme Court across the square, Whitehall stretching north. Not all of it packed into one view, but close enough that you can feel the weight of the place. Early on a Saturday morning in January you may have most of it to yourself, which is the only way to properly appreciate it. From here you have choices. Head up Whitehall and cut across the Horse Guards to reach St. James’s Park from the north, or head due west and arrive at the southeast corner of the park directly. Either way works. I usually went west. And that is where Churchill finds you.

Tucked at the southeast corner of St. James’s Park, nearly in the shadow of Parliament and Downing Street, are the Churchill War Rooms. If you have any interest in World War II, this is not optional. The War Rooms are the secret underground bunker where Churchill and his senior commanders spent the war years monitoring, planning, and trying to hold a country together when certainty was in short supply. When the war ended in 1945, they sealed the facility and walked away. It exists today almost exactly as it was left. The maps are still on the walls. The phones are still on the desks.

A city like London never lets you walk only in the present, and on June 6 that was especially true. Eighty-one years ago, the largest seaborne invasion in human history launched from Britain and landed on the beaches of Normandy. Some of it was planned in rooms like the ones a few hundred yards from where you are standing. The men who went ashore that morning did not all come home. A morning walk through a peaceful city is not a small thing when you remember what left from these shores. It is worth a moment of your time to remember that.

St. James’s Park is worth walking through, not around. Follow the path along the lake and take your time with it. The waterfowl alone are worth slowing down for. Ducks, geese, and swans move around in numbers that suggest they know they own the place. Henry VIII used it as a deer park. James I turned it into an exotic animal park. Charles I walked through it on his way to his execution. Now it is nearly sixty acres of paths, water, birds, and one of the better views in London. From there, Green Park carries you toward Hyde Park.

Hyde Park deserves its own moment. St. James’s Park belongs emotionally to monarchy and ceremony. Green Park belongs to quiet passage. Hyde Park belongs to the public, which means it is sometimes beautiful, sometimes noisy, sometimes odd, and almost always alive. By the time you arrive you have already walked a couple of miles, Paddington is just on the other side, and you might be tempted to think the hard part is behind you. It is not. Hyde Park covers 350 acres. Walking across it is a little like driving through Montana on I-90, where you are absolutely certain it is never going to end.

Henry VIII took this land from the monks of Westminster Abbey in 1536. The man had a pattern. It stayed private for a century until Charles I opened it to the public in 1637, giving Londoners a place to promenade, argue, protest, and occasionally listen to each other. History remembered him poorly regardless.

Every November through January, a corner of Hyde Park transforms into Winter Wonderland, a sprawling Christmas festival with roller coasters, a Ferris wheel, ice skating, a Bavarian village, and enough mulled wine to get through a British winter. I always wanted to go in but never had anyone to go with, and frankly the admission price gave me a convenient excuse. So I walked around it. London’s giant civic backyard. It takes a while to cross. I never minded.

And then, sometime around noon, after nearly four miles, three parks, and more pauses than I could count, I arrived at Paddington. For many, Paddington is where London begins. If you fly in from Heathrow you take the Express straight here. There is a bear named after this place, which tells you something about how deeply it has worked its way into the culture. It is a vast station of steel and glass, with none of the grandeur of Union Station in Washington or Grand Central in New York. It is open and cold and relentlessly busy. Frankly, it is overwhelming.

But I had a job to do, and I did it. Tucked into one corner was the ticket office. Because it was Saturday, there was rarely a line. I ordered the tickets with the group discount and tucked them into my jacket. I always found it odd how satisfying that moment was. I had walked nearly four miles across London for a stack of paper tickets, which made no sense and perfect sense at the same time. They were not just tickets. They were one step closer to Henley, one step closer to my students meeting family, and one step closer to seeing one of my best friends.

The tickets were sorted. Now came the long way home

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Advice I wish I had Given My Younger Self

The question is not really whether you would go back. The question is what you are going to do today with everything you already know.

Lately, scrolling through the noise that social media has become, I keep running into a certain kind of post. You have seen them. They usually start with a photograph, a high school hallway, a gymnasium, a parking lot that looks like every parking lot from 1984. And then comes the question. Would you go back? To a specific year. To a specific moment. To a specific version of yourself you have not been in a very long time.

The comment sections on these things are something. People arguing with complete strangers about which year they would choose and why. Some of them are serious. Some of them are heartbreaking. All of them are trying to answer the same question underneath the question, which is: was there a version of this life that went better?

I think about that question more than I probably should. When I see those posts I think about the 1980s with genuine nostalgia. It was a simpler time. We were not being bombarded around the clock with news and noise and everyone’s opinion about everything. But nostalgia is not the same as regret, and when I am honest with myself I do not look back at what I had and feel like something is missing now. My life is good. Arguably great. My wife is my best friend. My sons turned out amazing. My work has mattered, for the most part. My friendships have lasted longer than most things I own. And Ginger meets me at the door every single day like I have been gone for six months.

So the long and short of it is I am not going back. But I would send a note. That note, it turns out, has existed for years in rougher form, tucked inside syllabi and first-day-of-class remarks and the things I said on the last day when I thought nobody was writing anything down. It was shaped by the mistakes I thought I had made and the opportunities I thought I had missed and the things I wished someone had told me before I had to figure them out the hard way. Since I do not have a DeLorean with a flux capacitor, I will have to settle for what I have written here.

Find time for the people who will be gone the soonest. Now, if we are being honest, I would absolutely go back knowing what I know. I understand I might be tinkering with the space-time continuum, and I have made my peace with that. Yes, I would probably look into a few investments. Apple. Walmart. Amazon. Netflix. I am not a saint. But that is not actually why I would go back. I would go back to sit with my parents for a while. Hug them more. Ask them questions I never thought to ask. Ask them about their parents and grandparents, their cousins, the family stories that were actually told. Because they were told. I just was not paying attention the way I should have been. Storytelling is how families survive themselves, and I let too many stories go in one ear and out the other because I was young and thought there was plenty of time. The same goes for a few friends and family members I did not know I was running out of time with. In 1986, I did not know there were only ten years left with my dad.

Pay attention. Most of life does not announce itself as important when it happens. The random Tuesday night dinner when everyone somehow made it to the table. The walk with the dog. The conversation with your dad the night before he died, not knowing it would be your last. The family story you have heard a dozen times before and assume you will hear a dozen more. The big moments are easy to spot. Graduations. Weddings. Births. Retirements. Life has a way of putting those on the calendar for you. The smaller ones require more effort. They slip by quietly, and only later do you realize they were part of something larger. Take the picture. Ask the question. Stay a little longer. One day you will discover that what looked like an ordinary day was actually a gift. The trick is noticing it before it is gone. Turns out Ferris Bueller was right. Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.

Take the trip. Both of them. The one you cannot afford and the one you can. You will find reasons to wait on both, and the reasons will sound responsible and they will be wrong. Think about what you actually remember. Not the gifts. Not the things. The trips. The British Isles with my parents and grandparents. Switzerland for a dear friend’s twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. The thirteen-hour drive to Mackinac Island with my family, and somewhere in the middle of Wisconsin one of my sons looking up and announcing, “You people are the worst family ever. You people are not my family.” I remember all of it. If I had it to do over, I would rethink every holiday, every birthday, every Christmas morning. Less stuff under the tree. More stamps in the passport. Experiences last forever. Most everything else ends up at Goodwill.

Travel does something else too. It exposes you to different cultures, different people, different food, different ways of looking at the same world you thought you already understood. It hardens some of your beliefs and softens others, and both of those things are good for you. French wine tastes better in France. And most of all, you learn that a mother in South Dakota loves her child just as much as a mother nearly everywhere else in the world.

Ask her out. In my wildest dreams I did not think she would say yes. She said yes. We are married. There were others along the way, there always are, but she was the one, and I almost talked myself out of asking because I was certain I already knew the answer. I did not know the answer. That is the part nobody tells you. You are a terrible predictor of outcomes involving your own life. Ask anyway. Apply anyway. Start the business anyway. Have the conversation anyway. The worst outcome is rarely as bad as you imagine, and the wondering lasts considerably longer.

Read more than you think you need to. Not for school. Not to finish. Read because, like travel, it opens your mind and calms it at the same time. It expands curiosity and makes you better in ways that are hard to measure and impossible to fake. Every good book teaches you something. Find an author you enjoy and spend time with them. Doris Kearns Goodwin taught me about leadership through Lincoln and Team of Rivals, perhaps the greatest lesson in leadership ever put on paper. Oddly enough, my favorite book of hers is not about Lincoln at all. It is about growing up as a Brooklyn Dodgers fan in the 1950s. David McCullough took me to Paris in The Greater Journey. Michael Lewis taught me to see the world differently. Mitch Albom reminded me that kindness still matters. John Grisham kept me up far too late reading The Firm.

Books are inexpensive travel. They let you borrow someone else’s life for a few hundred pages and return to your own a little wiser than when you left. Ted Lasso once quoted Walt Whitman on this subject: be curious, not judgmental. There is essentially no evidence Whitman ever said that. But the line made me curious enough to go read some actual Whitman, which I suppose proves the point entirely. I have learned something from almost every book I have read. Some lessons were profound. Some were useful. Some were simply that Clan of the Cave Bear is still not making my top ten.

I baked reading into my syllabus every semester, mostly through Wall Street Journal articles, but it was intentional. I wanted my students curious about the world beyond the classroom and beyond the case law. Whether it worked I cannot say with any certainty. Some of them listened. I choose to believe more of them did than I will ever know.

Start saving. Now. Not instead of living, not instead of the trip or the experience or the night out that becomes a story you will tell for thirty years. Alongside all of it. Compound interest is the closest thing normal people get to magic. The problem is that magic only works if you start early. Start by at least matching what your company puts in. Then think about more. Ten percent of your pay is a good number. You will not miss it, and I say that knowing you think you will. Every time you get a raise, increase your savings rate by half. If you get a four percent raise, save two more percent before you ever see it. The math on compound interest is not complicated, but it is unforgiving. Time is the one ingredient you cannot buy back. You do not need to save everything. You need to start. There is a difference, and younger me confused the two for longer than I would like to admit.

Move your body. I want to be clear about something. I have never liked working out. The gym, the weights, the person grunting next to you at six in the morning, none of that was ever me. But I do like moving, and it turns out that is enough. Walk. Swim. Bike. Dance. Tai chi. Golf without the cart. Run, if you are that particular kind of crazy. It does not have to hurt and it does not have to be impressive. It just has to happen, and it has to happen again tomorrow. I have now walked more than thirty million steps, one day at a time, and I did not do it because I love exercise. I did it because I love moving. The body keeps score longer than we think it does, and small, consistent habits compound the same way investments do. Small. Consistent. Long term. The math works the same way in both places. Trust it.

Worry less. I mean this practically, not as a bumper sticker. You are lying awake at 2am about the student upset about his grade, the client upset about his case, the beneficiary upset about not getting enough money. You cannot fix any of it at 2am. And if you are being honest, most of it was never yours to fix in the first place. I used to tell my students there were three kinds of problems in the world. Your problems. My problems. Our problems. And most of the problems keeping people awake at night belong firmly in that first category. Not mine. Not ours. Yours. The sooner you learn to hand them back, the better everyone sleeps, including you. So plan for what is actually yours. Adapt when you need to. Handle what is genuinely in front of you. But the 2am rehearsal of every possible outcome, that is just energy leaving the building with nothing to show for it. I stumbled onto a meditation technique once where you imagine a river and you place each anxious thought onto a boat and watch it float away. You keep going until the river is empty. The first time I tried it I was skeptical. By the fifth boat I was nearly asleep. Five minutes of watching your thoughts drift downstream will do more for you than two hours of staring at the ceiling. Put it on a boat. Let it go.

Take the chance. This one is broader than the trip and the girl, though it includes both. I mean the job you are not sure you are qualified for. The idea you have not said out loud yet. The conversation you keep rehearsing and never having. The version of yourself you have not introduced to anyone yet. Younger me was careful in ways that younger me thought were wise. They were not wise. They were fear with better posture. I tried to tell my students that, in so many words, every chance I got. I am not sure they believed me. I am not sure I would have believed me either. And if it does not work? Pay attention. Failure usually has something to teach you. More often than not, the breakthrough is sitting just on the other side of the thing that did not go according to plan. Some of the best things that happened to me came immediately after something I thought was a setback. At the time I could not see it. Looking back, it seems obvious. Looking forward, it never does.

Forgive yourself. You will make mistakes. You will say the wrong thing to the wrong person at the wrong moment. You will lose friends, money, and maybe a job. Some of it will be your fault. Some of it will feel like your fault and will not be. Either way, carrying it does not fix it. Learn what it has to teach you, resolve not to do the same thing twice, and put it down. It just makes everything else heavier.

There is a particular cruelty in advice. It arrives, almost without exception, after the moment it would have been useful. Four years ago I wrote something called The Last Lecture, my final words to my students at Augustana on my last day in the classroom. Reading it now alongside this is an interesting exercise. The curiosity is still there. The belief in showing up is still there. But that piece was written from the front of a room to people just starting out. This one is written from inside a life, to myself, with the benefit of forty years of evidence. What strikes me most is that the advice is not all that different. Which means one of two things. Either I have not learned as much as I thought, or the fundamentals were right all along and the only thing that changes is how personally you feel them. I choose to believe it is the latter. And I suspect that everything I just told younger me applies just as much to the students who sat in my classroom over the years as it does to the man who stood at the front of it.

Here is the thing I did not expect when I started writing this. Most of this list is not finished business. It is current business. The people who are still here will not always be. There are trips not yet taken and chances not yet seized and worry that still needs to stop. The body still needs to move tomorrow and the day after that. The math on all of it still works, but only if you start. I wrote this as advice to a younger version of myself and somewhere in the middle of writing it I realized I was also writing it to right now. That is what the social media posts never tell you. The question is not really whether you would go back. The question is what you are going to do today with everything you already know.

Most of the chances I took turned out better than I deserved, and most of the ones I did not take I cannot quite stop thinking about. The balance sheet is not even close. My life is good. It could have been good sooner, and with less hesitation. But it is not too late for any of it. Not for me. Not for you.

Do the thing. Take the trip. Ask.

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The Man With the Rose

A family trip to Washington DC becomes an unexpected lesson in memory, sacrifice, and what memorial day really means when you let it land.

Washington, D.C., in the summer belongs to everyone. The tour groups, the school trips, the families with strollers and matching t-shirts and someone always needing a bathroom. We had both been there before, my wife and I, though never together. Our oldest son had not been there at all. We were the kind of parents who believed in this sort of thing. Washington, D.C., is the heart of the democratic experiment, the place where laws are made, history preserved, and sacrifice remembered in stone and silence. Some families went to Disney. We went to Washington. Each boy was going to get his own trip, seven years apart. This was the first one. It also happened to be near my wife’s fortieth birthday, which made it feel like the right time for all of it.

Washington and I went back a long way. In 1984 I came with my high school band for the Cherry Blossom Festival. We took first place in the competition, the same thing our band had done three years earlier. Just three years after that we would become the first band from South Dakota invited to march in the Rose Bowl Parade, but what I remember most about that first trip was Pennsylvania Avenue. We marched down it playing “Battle Hymn of the Republic” and “This Is My Country,” trying to stay in formation while I worried mostly about the horses ahead of us. White marching shoes and horses always felt like a risky combination. Even then the city felt different to me, heavier, like history happened there in a way it did not happen other places. I was a teenager and I felt it. I wondered what I would feel coming back as a father.

This trip was different. I was coming back with nearly four decades of life behind me, but I was also seeing the city through the eyes of an eleven-year-old seeing it for the first time. That changes the experience. We walked the Mall, toured the Capitol, and negotiated our way through the Smithsonian. My wife wanted to watch a congressional debate on immigration. My son and I wanted Air and Space. We went to Air and Space. We stood at the Vietnam Wall. The names go on longer than you think they will. More than 58,000 of them. At some point they stop feeling historical and start feeling personal. You cannot stand there very long without realizing each name once belonged to somebody who thought they would eventually come home.

We visited Arlington National Cemetery and found the grave of Cecil Harris, my father’s cousin and a World War II fighter ace. He died on his birthday. I had known his name my entire life, mostly because he was my father’s hero. Standing over the marker, surrounded by row after row of men just like him, I understood something about that word for the first time. This was where the heroes were. All of them. My son was young and we told him what we could.

The changing of the guard at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier is another one of those things Americans think they understand before they see it. Then they see it. Twenty-one steps. Twenty-one seconds. Everything deliberate. Everything exact. While we were there another group laid a wreath, the same ceremony my high school band had once participated in years earlier. We stood quietly with everyone else watching until a phone rang somewhere in the crowd. Not just any ringtone either. The American Idol theme song. The sound cut through the silence in a way that felt almost physically painful. Heads snapped around. A few people gasped. The soldier never reacted. That made it worse.

But even that was not the moment we carried home with us.

That came later at the World War II Memorial.

We arrived early on purpose because my wife hates crowds. The memorial was nearly empty when we got there. Blue sky without a cloud in it. White stone. You could hear your own footsteps. The World War II Memorial feels different from the Vietnam Wall. The Vietnam Wall is intimate and personal. It breaks you quietly. The World War II Memorial is broader than grief. Vast and declarative, built to hold the weight of an entire generation and what was asked of them. We walked slowly around the perimeter reading the names etched into the stone. Normandy. Bastogne. Midway. Saipan.

Then the bus pulled up.

It was a charter carrying veterans. The men stepped off slowly, moving with the careful mechanics of age. Several wore hearing aids. One carried portable oxygen. There were canes and a few white New Balance tennis shoes. Many wore caps stitched with the names the campaigns and divisions: Pacific Theater, 82nd Airborne, Battle of the Bulge. Someone handed each man a rose as he stepped onto the plaza. They entered the memorial built for the war they had fought more than sixty years earlier, long after most of the country had moved on. Etched into the stone behind them, the words of one of their own: “This was a people’s war, and everyone was in it.”

One man drifted quietly toward the Pacific side of the memorial. He moved slower than the others. His rose trembled slightly in his hand. I tried to take a picture without being noticed, one man alone walking toward a wall built for his war. He stopped near the word Saipan and carefully lowered the flower to the base of the wall. Then he stayed there. He did not speak. He did not move. More than once he started to turn away and could not do it. Something kept pulling him back to that stone. After a while another veteran walked over and gently took him by the arm. He leaned into the help as they slowly started back toward the bus. Halfway there he turned around once, just once, looking back toward the wall with something I still do not have a word for.

The rose stayed. The man left. The name on the stone didn’t change.

I have thought about him many times since that morning. I still wonder what it was that held him there. A memory. A friend. A brother. Something that happened on that island that he never spoke of and never forgot. Whatever it was, it was strong enough to pull him back to that wall sixty years later with a rose in his hand and no ability to leave. I will never know the answer. When you are talking about war, maybe wondering is the right response. Maybe not asking is its own kind of respect.

Those men came home. Thousands of others did not. Their theaters and battles are etched in the granite. Others have their names on the Vietnam Wall. They are in the ground at Arlington. So many who never came home. Memorial Day gets treated now as the unofficial start of summer, the long weekend, the backyard barbecue, the first real warmth after winter. None of that is wrong. But it is also this. An old man and a rose and a word carved in stone. The ones who did not come home deserve at least that much of our attention, at least one moment in the long weekend when we let it land.

My son was eleven that morning. My wife and I were nearing forty. The veterans were in their eighties. We all stood in the same place. We all carried different versions of the American experience. None of us said much walking back. Washington does that. It finds you wherever you are. It found a teenager once, worried about horses. It found a father watching his son. It found old men with roses. It finds everyone. And it asks the same thing every time. Do you understand what this cost?

Sometimes that’s how it starts.

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Walking Thoughts

A ransomware attack took down Canvas at the end of the semester. A seven year walking streak. A treadmill in a basement. And what all three have in common.

Earlier this week, I walked outside in shorts and a t-shirt for the first time in a long time. Ginger was with me, which has not been a given since January. The temperature was what my kids used to call Goldilocks weather. Not too hot. Not too cold. Just right. It felt like spring, which is one of my favorite seasons, and for a few minutes it felt like something else too. It felt like before.

After my fall, the winter was a lot of treadmill miles. Necessary, functional, and about as inspiring as a dentist waiting room. The streak stayed alive, but the treadmill is not this. It is not the morning air or the way Ginger’s ears go up when she realizes we are actually going outside and not just standing near the door. It is not pavement under your feet or the specific quality of light that only exists in early morning in May. The treadmill is the backup system. This is the real thing. I have been thinking about backup systems a lot lately.

The streak is important to me. It is not worth my life. Those two things can both be true, and learning to hold them together has been its own kind of discipline. Ginger has paid the price for my caution more than anyone, which is not entirely fair to her. But here we were on Tuesday morning. Back outside. Goldilocks weather. Shorts and a t-shirt. The dog happy in the way only dogs can be happy, completely and without reservation.

On one of those treadmill mornings earlier this week, before the shorts and the t-shirt and the Goldilocks weather, I was reading about Canvas on my iPad while walking in place in my basement. Canvas had been hit with a ransomware attack. The system was down. Data had been breached. Somewhere, someone was waiting to get paid.

For those who do not spend their lives around universities, Canvas is the learning management system that runs coursework, gradebooks, assignments, and submission records at a majority of American colleges and universities. Michigan uses it. Minnesota uses it. So do Harvard, Stanford, MIT, and Cal Berkeley. The public school district down the street uses it. Everyone uses it. Well, almost everyone. Purdue made a different call. North Carolina State uses Moodle, which used to be the system at my former institution before Canvas became the answer to a question nobody asked out loud.

The ransomware attack was timed with surgical precision. End of semester. Grades due. Students at maximum anxiety. Every hallway conversation and email orbiting the same question. Then suddenly, the whole system was gone. I later learned that the day before the attack, my former institution had recommended a policy requiring faculty to use Canvas or suffer consequences that were not fully specified but were clearly intended to sound unpleasant. One day later, Canvas did not exist. The universe, apparently, was paying attention.

In the days after the attack, I came across social media posts and articles from professors, mostly in the humanities. Most were people I have never met. A few were former colleagues. Many smugly announced that this never happened before Canvas, that the old system worked fine, and that if we simply returned to bluebooks and spiral notebooks we would all be safe from hackers. They were not wrong that ransomware cannot attack a filing cabinet. They were wrong about almost everything else. A bluebook and a spiral notebook are one fire, flood, theft, or dog with poor judgment away from a semester that never existed. The filing cabinet has no redundancy, no recovery, and no mercy. That is not a backup system. That is cognitive dissonance with a manila folder.

My response to all of this has mostly been a Gen X eye roll. We are the generation that typed college papers on typewriters with margin formatters because the alternative was starting over. We are the generation that had that one professor, and you know exactly who I mean, who required footnotes at the bottom of every page instead of endnotes because he had decided that was how civilization worked and your convenience was not his problem. In law school, we saved papers every ten minutes and printed them every half hour. By the end of a writing session there would be a stack of drafts on the desk and no reliable way to know which one was current. That was our backup system. We learned early that the tools were never as reliable as they looked and the system was never your friend. So when administrators started calling Canvas innovation, some of us smiled, nodded, and kept backing things up.

And because Gen X does not brag about this kind of thing, I will simply say that my gradebook most likely would not have been impacted. During my last semester teaching, I was required to use Canvas as my LMS. Every time I entered a grade into Canvas, I exported the file into an Excel spreadsheet saved in two places: my computer and a thumb drive. My syllabus was not contained in Canvas. It was uploaded to Canvas, which is a different thing entirely. Assignments were separate files. Canvas was the display window, not the warehouse. I did this because systems fail. Not sometimes. Eventually. All of them.

I have been walking every day for nearly seven years. Two thousand two hundred and some days, depending on when you are reading this. The streak began on March 1, 2020, and I know that the way I know my own birthday. Every step since then has been counted by a device, transferred to software, uploaded to an app that tells me immediately where I stand and how long the streak has been intact. The streak is simple in its requirements and unforgiving in its execution: a minimum of ten thousand steps, every single day, without exception. Early on, that number mattered more than it does now. I needed to see it. Now I just need to know it.

If the watch dies tomorrow, if the software crashes, if every piece of technology I use to track this disappears overnight, and I have already walked at least ten thousand steps that day, the streak is still intact. The walk happened. The streak exists in the record, yes, but it also exists somewhere the record cannot touch. I know for a fact that I have walked every day since March 1, 2020. No ransomware attack changes that.

The grades and assignments should work the same way. The learning happened. The work happened. The record of it should be protected, backed up, saved in more than one place. But the work itself belongs to something no system can hold and no hacker can touch. Canvas was the display window, not the thing itself.

The treadmill kept the streak alive all winter. It is not the walk. It was never the walk. But it was there when the walk was not possible, which is the only thing a backup system needs to be.

I will walk this morning. I will write down the number. Somewhere, somebody will back up a gradebook before the semester closes. Somebody else will not.

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What a Mother Is

A Mother’s Day essay about the several mothers in one life — the mother who raised me, the birth mother I found after fifty years, and the woman I chose. Each gave me something the others couldn’t.

There is a painting in my home that has always been part of my life. A mother holding a child, rendered in bold blues and yellows by a local artist named Jacqueline Rochester. My parents bought it from her when she was a neighbor. Years later, I inherited it. My wife lets me keep it in our home. I am not someone who is moved by a great deal of art. I am moved by this one.

It hangs in the main room. At some point, Mother’s Day flowers ended up on either side of it without anyone planning it. Two bouquets framing a mother and child. It seemed right to leave them there. Tomorrow is Mother’s Day. Early in life, the assumption built into all of it, the cards, the brunches, the flower displays waiting near every grocery store entrance, is that you only have one mother to think about. That is true for a while. Then life keeps moving and the math changes.

There are several mothers in my life, each of whom gave me something the others could not. Every second Sunday in May, I think about all of them.

My mother was everything a young child could want. Caring, compassionate, creative, kind. She made my lunch every day, always my favorite foods. When dinner came, she cooked multiple meals to keep all of us happy. My father, who grew up in a time when food was not always plentiful, would have told us to eat what was in front of us and be grateful. My mother just cooked another meal.

It was early June when a flash flood devastated my hometown. Two hundred and thirty-eight people died in a matter of hours. I was four years old, so my memories are not complete. I remember pieces. Bridges washed out. Cars upside down in department stores. Water and sewer service gone. Close family friends lost their home and lived with us for six or eight weeks. We shared what we had. When we needed drinking water, we drove to an elementary school where tanker trucks had been set up for families. Standing in line filling jugs should have felt strange or frightening. My mother made it feel like an adventure. She made turning on a faucet sound dull by comparison. What four-year-old gets to drive to a school to pick up water?

Looking back now, I realize the same qualities that made her a good mother also made her good on television. “A Woman’s Touch With Mary Ann” was a local talk show, and she was its host. Before tapings, I watched her settle nervous guests with conversation. She made them comfortable. She treated them like they were the most important person in the world, and for those few minutes, maybe they were. She interviewed Phil Donahue, Bob Hope, and, before much of the country understood what it was seeing, Oprah Winfrey. I have sometimes wondered what would have happened if she had been born in a different era or found her way to a bigger market earlier. She never wondered out loud. She may have known it. She never let on.

When South Dakota decided to close the institution where both of my brothers lived, one for twenty-five years and the other for nearly fifteen, my mother went to work. She wrote letters, made calls, cornered politicians, and fought for her sons the way only a mother can fight when she has nothing to lose and everything to protect. In the end, the institution closed anyway. She did not win. But by the end of it, the governor knew exactly who she was. For a mother fighting for her kids, that is not nothing.

In late April and early May, the pasque flower bloomed across our property in the Black Hills. Purple and low to the ground, the first sign winter had finally loosened its grip. Every spring I picked bouquets for my mother without being asked. What I did not know at the time, or perhaps did not care about, was that the pasque flower is the South Dakota state flower, and picking it is technically illegal. I was out there committing crimes for my mother on a seasonal basis. She never once mentioned it. She took those bouquets like they were the greatest gift she had ever received, and she made me feel like maybe they were. Even in college, if I happened to be home at the right time, I still picked them. Some habits survive childhood intact.

She wasn’t there the day I was born, but she is the beginning of every memory I have. She is my original Mother’s Day. She’s gone now. But every May she returns a little.

Maybe that is part of getting older. You realize the people you have lost are not gone in any practical sense. They remain in habits, stories, meals, flowers, holidays, and even the objects sitting quietly in your home. Mother’s Day stopped being simple for me a long time ago because eventually I realized there was another mother thinking about me too.

In the summer of 1968, a twenty-year-old junior at Florida State University arrived in Sioux Falls alone, unmarried, and pregnant. In that era, those facts carried their own social sentence. She lived in a basement apartment for four months. She sewed clothes. She read books. She watched baseball. When the time came, nurses took the baby before she could hold him. She knew only that he was a boy. Then she went home and rebuilt her life. She married, had children, built a career, and kept the secret for fifty years. The hardest days, she later told me, were Christmas, Mother’s Day, and June 15th, the birthday she knew was being celebrated somewhere by someone.

That boy was me.

I found Sandi the way people find things now. A DNA test led to a first cousin match, some internet sleuthing, and eventually, to her. The letter I wrote her took nearly two weeks. I gave her every possible exit because I did not know what waited on the other side. On Christmas Eve 2018, I was standing in a Hy-Vee checkout line, already irritated about something I can no longer remember, when I checked my phone and saw an email subject line that read “Happy Christmas.” I left the cart where it was and walked to my car. I sat there reading the words of a woman I had never met, a woman who had thought about me every Christmas for half a century. At some point I started crying. By the time I drove home, whatever had irritated me ten minutes earlier had completely disappeared.

We met in North Carolina the following spring. She saw me come through the airport terminal and recognized me instantly. To anyone watching, the resemblance probably made the whole thing obvious. She held me the way she had not been allowed to hold me fifty years earlier. For most of my life, adoption had felt abstract to me, almost administrative. A fact more than a feeling. Meeting Sandi rearranged that.

Sandi gave me two things no one else could give. She gave me life. And she gave me up so I could have a better one. I did not understand the size of that decision until I became a parent myself. Both required courage. Both were acts of love. It took me five decades to understand that, but I understand it now.

The painting changed a little after that. For years I had mostly seen comfort in it. After finding Sandi, I started noticing the grip in the mother’s arms.

I did not get to choose the first two women in this story. They came to me the way most things in life do, through circumstance, timing, and decisions made by others. Wanda I chose. She chose me back. What followed has been the great gift of my life, and I have never once found the words adequate to describe her.

Wanda is not a June Cleaver mother. She didn’t bring treats to the ball games. But she made sure her boys got there, on time, with every piece of equipment they needed, which anyone who has ever tried to get a child out the door for a game knows is no small thing. She grew up with only a sister. Boys were not part of her original instruction manual. She figured it out anyway. I’d like to think I helped with the translation.

What she did was harder and quieter than the performing version of motherhood, and she never pretended otherwise. She led by example. She became a role model for her boys without any of them noticing it was happening, which is the only way that actually works.

She protected them, even from me. There were moments when I had something to say and she would suggest another approach. She was right. Every time. Her version of mothering was never hovering. She let her boys figure things out on their own, which takes more restraint than most people realize. When they needed to be challenged, she challenged them. When they needed to be held accountable, she held them accountable. She had a gift I never fully mastered. She could chew them out and motivate them in the same breath. I could only manage the first part.

There is one moment, though, that I come back to more than any other. Our oldest was seven years old when he hit a tree on a ski slope and cracked his skull. We had just found out we were pregnant with our youngest. The doctors were careful with their words. The next 48 hours would be key. That was all they could tell us.

The first night, the two of us folded ourselves into a single recliner in that hospital room, holding each other, not saying much. There wasn’t much to say. Outside the window, the world was going about its business. Inside that room, everything had narrowed down to the sound of a monitor and a seven-year-old’s breathing.

She stayed. The second night, she insisted I go to the hotel. One of us needed real rest, she said. One of us needed to be ready for whatever came next. She had already decided it wasn’t going to be her turn to step back. She sat awake through the night carrying one child while watching over another, and she did it without drama, without complaint, without asking anyone to notice.

We knew he was going to be fine when he started trying to make shapes on one of the monitors, controlling his breath, watching the screen, turning medical equipment into a game. That’s a seven-year-old telling you he’s back. We laughed. On the third day, we went home.

Wanda has been that woman every day for more than twenty-five years. I have a law degree and I teach for a living. I am reasonably good with words. They are not sufficient when it comes to her.

There are several mothers in my life. I am not confused by that. I am grateful for it. Each one of them gave me something the others couldn’t.

Tomorrow is Mother’s Day. There will be flowers and a card, and if I know Wanda, she will insist neither was necessary. Ginger will spend the day underfoot, hoping the occasion calls for a longer walk than usual. Somewhere in North Carolina, Sandi will think about June 15th, except now she knows where the story ended. And I will think about my mother, who spent much of her life making difficult things feel manageable for the people around her.

The painting will still be there when we get back. A mother holding a child between two bouquets no one planned.

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See You When Silver Turns to Gold

Twenty-five years ago today it was raining in Rapid City. The places are mostly gone. The day is completely intact.

They say it’s good luck if it rains on your wedding day. Twenty-five years ago today, it was raining. I remember because my soon-to-be wife was worried about her hair. That has held up as a theme. I do not worry about my hair, one of the advantages of not having much left to negotiate. It was also Cinco de Mayo, and I’ve always suspected that wasn’t entirely accidental.

We were married at the Chapel in the Hills, a replica stave church in Rapid City honoring her Norwegian Lutheran heritage and a shared Augustana history, even if we hadn’t found each other there yet. Only our families were invited. Our friends found out later, which was less dramatic than it sounds and exactly how we wanted it. Nine people. Small, quiet, and right.

After the ceremony, we had lunch at the Canyon Lake Chophouse. It’s gone now. That evening, after everyone went their separate ways, we drove to Deadwood for dinner at Jake’s, on the top floor of the Midnight Star. It felt like the right place for that night. It closed about ten years ago, reopened at some point, and I’m not entirely sure what it is now. After dinner, we headed to our family cabin at Terry Peak. We sold that about fifteen years ago.

The Chapel in the Hills is still there, but much of the rest has shifted. The restaurant where we celebrated with family is gone. The place where we had our first dinner as a married couple has been through at least one more life. The cabin where we ended the night is no longer ours. Many of the places that framed one of the most important days of our life no longer exist, or no longer belong to us, or have become something else entirely. And yet the day is completely intact.

We are not the same as we were that day either. A lot of life has happened. We expanded our family. We built a home. We buried a parent. We buried a brother. We built careers and then rebuilt them. We watched both kids grow up and leave, which is the point and also a terrible system. It wasn’t all sunshine and puppy dogs, though we did eventually get the dog. There were ups, a lot of them, and some downs. We rode them out. Everything around us shifted. We shifted too. But through all of it, one thing never moved. Us.

Twenty-five years is long enough to know which fights weren’t worth having and short enough to remember having them anyway. Long enough to finish each other’s sentences and still occasionally be surprised by the person sitting across the table. Long enough to understand that showing up, day after day, in the ordinary and the hard and the unremarkable, is the whole thing.

So, to the woman who worried about her hair in the rain on a cool May morning in Rapid City, thank you. For your love, your patience, your understanding, your compassion, our children, and the thousand quiet Tuesdays that nobody writes about but that are the whole story.

Your hair looked great, by the way. It always does.

See you when silver turns to gold.

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How Then Shall We Live

A professor, lawyer, lifelong learner, reflects on what college actually gave him – a World War II barracks, a prehistoric novel, Arthur Miller, and a holocaust survivor who answered the question that still matters most.

The graduation announcements have started arriving in the mail. Envelopes from family members, children of friends, and young people I know mostly through Christmas cards, sidelines, and the long social web of a South Dakota life, where there are at most two degrees of separation between anyone in the entire state, and that may be generous. They are heading toward ceremonies and photographs and whatever comes next. I am not standing at the front of a classroom anymore. But every spring, when the announcements arrive, I find myself thinking about what college meant, what I missed while I was in it, and whether it still offers young people something worth the cost, the time, and the trouble.

I have been thinking about this one for a while, trying to figure out how to say what I want to say. The topic is too big. The question is too complicated. Every time I think I know where it is going, it turns out I don’t, which is either a sign that I am not ready to write it or a sign that it is exactly the kind of thing worth writing. I have decided to believe the latter and proceed accordingly.

Consider this a first pass. I will come back to it. The question demands that. And it may demand more than one answer.

There was a quote on the wall of a classroom at Augustana College that I have never forgotten. It belongs to the philosopher George Santayana: “Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.” The building that held it had its own history. After World War II, Augustana purchased several barracks from the Sioux Falls Air Base and moved them to campus to accommodate a surge in enrollment. One of them, an H-shaped structure, became the Science Building, and later the Social Science Building, with a little theater tucked inside. It lasted nearly sixty years before finally coming down. For those who took classes there, it is hard to forget and hard to describe. Santayana’s quote went with it. Some things have to be carried.

Augustana College, Augustana University now, in the late 1980s was a small Lutheran liberal arts institution on the plains of South Dakota, the kind of place that took seriously the question of what education was for. Not just what you would do with it, but what it would do with you. You would study across disciplines. You would sit with ideas that made you uncomfortable. And at the end, if the institution had done its job, you would be prepared to wrestle with the question that sat underneath all of it: how then shall we live. And, though no one said it quite this way, how then shall we not.

The question, of course, is whether a place like that still exists, or whether we have priced it out, streamlined it away, or explained it so poorly that people no longer recognize its value when they see it.

I did not appreciate any of this at the time. I was eighteen. I had opinions and a meal plan and very little else. The liberal arts made no particular sense to me. College itself made no particular sense to me.

My father had two requirements for everyone in our family. The first was piano lessons. I took them long enough to negotiate my way out, eventually arguing that being in band should count for something. He accepted this, either because he agreed or because he was tired of the negotiation. The second requirement was not negotiable: you are going to college. My parents believed, with the certainty of people who had thought this through, that a degree was the most reliable path to a life with options. They had also, I suspect, done an honest assessment of my manual skills and concluded that the alternatives were limited.

So I went. I had no idea that over the next four years the place would fundamentally change me. I had no idea that a barracks turned classroom, a book I did not want to read, a playwright I did not seek out, and a quote on a wall I walked past a hundred times would still be with me decades later. The place changed me mostly for the better. I say mostly because I am a GenX kid with a healthy suspicion of clean endings. It was college. Some of it was a mess. But the mess turned out to matter too. It would be years before the liberal arts really set in — not until I found myself on the other side of the classroom, looking out at eighteen-year-olds with opinions and meal plans and very little else, and finally understood what had been happening to me all along.

At some point I enrolled in a course called God in the 21st Century: In Search of Fresh Images and New Metaphors. The title was the course. This was not about doctrine or tradition. It was about what happens when the old frameworks stop holding, when the answers no longer fit the questions people are actually asking.

I was assigned Jean Auel’s The Clan of the Cave Bear. My initial reaction was not enthusiastic. A five-hundred-page prehistoric novel in a religion course felt like a category error. We were given two days to read it, which felt less like pedagogy and more like a test of endurance. What stayed with me was not the plot but the structure underneath it, the way authority operated, the way people signaled power and enforced it. I did not have language for that at the time. I do now.

We also read Shusaku Endo’s Silence and The Last Temptation of Christ by Nikos Kazantzakis. I remember liking Silence without being able to tell you why. Some books work on you quietly and leave no forwarding address.

Kazantzakis stayed with me more clearly, mostly because of what was happening around it. The film adaptation had just been released and people were furious. Protests, boycotts, the full apparatus of public outrage. As a junior I did not fully understand the reaction. I understand it better now. He was not writing the untouchable figure many churchgoers recognize. He was writing the human one, a man who wrestled with the possibility of walking away. What if he had refused the role. What if he had chosen an ordinary life. The church has always held that Jesus was both fully human and fully divine. Kazantzakis chose to dwell inside that human struggle, and that alone was enough to bring people into the streets. Today I can see why deeply religious people would struggle with that. But I think that tension — human and divine, doubt and commitment, the road taken and the one refused — is actually at the heart of who Jesus is. The controversy, it turned out, was the lesson.

The professor knew something I didn’t. That is usually how it works.

It was an English course that introduced me to Arthur Miller’s Death of a Salesman. It was on the syllabus, and attending his campus lecture was part of the assignment. I did not seek out the experience. It was required. And yet I sat there and thought: I am in the presence of history. The man had been married to Marilyn Monroe. He talked a little about his writing and I don’t remember much of what he said. What I remember is knowing I was somewhere important, even if I couldn’t have explained exactly why. I was twenty years old and that was enough.

What stayed with me was not the lecture. It was the play. Willy Loman did not fail because he worked too little. He failed because he believed the wrong things about what success meant. He believed the hustle was the point. He was wrong then. We are still getting this wrong. Every new wave of technology resets the hustle without changing the error underneath it. The tools change. The mistake doesn’t.

Which makes the question unavoidable: if college is still worth it, it has to do more than credential the hustle. It has to correct it.

Here is something they do not put in the brochure: higher education is terrible at explaining itself. Colleges will tell you the liberal arts are important. They will hand you a course catalog and a tuition bill and a vague promise about critical thinking. What they will not do often enough is tell you what it is for. Longevity is not an argument. And when they fail to explain it, people quite reasonably start to wonder whether it is worth what it costs.

I spent much of my adult life on the other side of the classroom. Somewhere in the neighborhood of 1,200 students sat in front of me, most of them business majors, most of them practical, most of them focused on what the degree would get them. I do not say that as criticism. It is honest. I understood it because I had been exactly the same way, sitting in a barracks turned classroom, annoyed about a book on prehistoric humans, completely unaware that I was being handed something I would spend the rest of my life unpacking.

But here is what I watched happen, year after year, with the consistency of a well-run experiment: the students who could think across disciplines were better at everything else. Not a little better. Meaningfully better. The accounting major who had wrestled with philosophy could construct an ethical argument under pressure and make it hold. The finance student who had read history understood something his peers sometimes missed — that markets are not machines, they are human systems, and human systems are not rational, they are emotional, and emotional systems repeat themselves with remarkable loyalty to their worst instincts. The business student who had learned to write, really write, could walk into a room and move people with a memo. These were not soft skills decorating the edges of a real education. They were the real education, wearing a different name tag at the conference.

If you are asking whether college has value, this is where I would point. Not to the credential, not to the starting salary, but to the ability to think, to connect, to see patterns where others see noise. Those things compound. They are hard to measure in the short term and almost impossible to replace later.

The argument that liberal arts and vocational programs are rivals is one of the more persistent and counterproductive ideas in American higher education. It is also wrong. The business major and the philosophy major need each other. The nursing student and the history student are asking different versions of the same question. The vocational and the liberal are not competing tracks. They are the same education, approached from different doors, and the ones who figured that out — who let the two inform each other — were the ones who could do things the others couldn’t quite explain.

At Augustana there was a senior capstone course built around exactly this idea. Three disciplines. Humanities, social sciences, natural sciences. The assignment was to put them in conversation with each other, to find the connective tissue, to arrive at something that none of them could produce alone. It was the institution making its argument at last, showing its hand after four years of dealing cards. The course was asking students to do what the whole education had been preparing them to do. It was asking them to think. Not about one thing. About everything, together, at once. And underneath all of it, the question the curriculum was always really about: how then shall we live.

That capstone course was part of a new curriculum Augustana implemented in the late 1980s, an institutional bet that the whole education should build toward something. It was the right bet. In my final years on the faculty, much of it driven by a dean who I believe fundamentally misread what the curriculum was for, the capstone was dismantled and replaced with a first-year experience. The question moved from the end of the journey to the beginning. I thought it was a mistake then. I still think it was a mistake. You cannot answer how then shall we live before you have lived anything. The capstone worked because students arrived at it carrying four years of accumulated confusion, challenge, and occasional revelation. That accumulation was the point. Strip it away and you have a nice orientation exercise. You do not have an education.

This is, I think, what is missing from higher education today. Not funding. Not technology. Not innovation. The willingness to ask the hard question at the moment when it might actually land.

The course was a January term. One month. Three professors. Every day. Peter Schotten, Murray Harr, and Sandra Looney. I want to name them because they deserve to be named.

Peter was Jewish, one of the smartest men I have ever known. As a professor he challenged you and pushed you, and he did it with the confidence of someone who knew exactly what he was building. He was my pre-law advisor and mentor, and when I later returned to Augustana as a colleague he continued to be both. I spent my entire teaching career trying to emulate him. I never did.

Murray had been raised Jewish, had family members who survived the Holocaust, had found his way to Lutheranism, and would later find his way back to Judaism. He had lived the questions he was asking. That mattered. It showed up in the way he taught, in the way he moved between traditions, in the way he assigned books that did not make sense until years later. It was Murray who, earlier, had assigned Clan of the Cave Bear. I understood it better now than I had then.

Sandra Looney was extraordinary. I have tried to find the adequate words for what she brought to that room and I cannot. Some things resist description. What I can say is that all three of them knew exactly what they were doing, and that the month they built together was the most intellectually alive I have ever felt in a classroom.

The centerpiece of the course was a trip to Minneapolis. We stayed at a Lutheran seminary, which felt appropriately on brand for a small Lutheran college on the plains. We saw a dinner theater production of Shenandoah — a Civil War musical about a Virginia farmer who tries to keep his family out of a war that will not stay away from his door. We sat in the front rows of Orchestra Hall, close enough that the music felt physical, close enough that I could see the faces of the musicians. I couldn’t tell you now what they performed. What I remember is thinking that each of those experiences alone would have been worth the trip.

Then we went to a Holocaust center and met Holocaust survivors.

Two survivors spoke with us that day. I don’t remember the name of either one. I don’t remember much of what they said. What I remember is a woman who rolled up her sleeve and showed us her forearm. The number tattooed there when she was a prisoner at Auschwitz. She had been a young woman when they put it on her. She was an old woman now, standing in a room full of college students from South Dakota who had just seen a musical and heard an orchestra, and she was showing us what human beings are capable of doing to one another.

The course had been asking all month how then shall we live. Standing in that room, looking at that forearm, I understood that the question had another side. How then shall we not live. That is not a rhetorical flourish. It is the other half of the education. The books, the arguments, the disciplines in conversation with each other — all of it points somewhere. That woman’s forearm pointed there too, more directly than anything I had read in four years of college.

I have never forgotten her. I don’t need her name to carry what she gave us.

I have been asking it ever since. As a student who did not know what he was being given. As a lawyer who learned that the law is a philosophy with consequences, and that the consequences have a way of clarifying the philosophy. As a professor who watched young people arrive with answers and leave, if things went well, with better questions. As someone who has now walked more than 2,200 days in a row, which turns out to be its own kind of answer, or at least its own kind of practice. You keep moving. You figure it out as you go.

The barracks is gone. A building that survived a world war, crossed a city on a flatbed truck, and held a quote about memory on its wall for sixty years is gone. Santayana would have had something to say about that.

Willy Loman is still out there, working the territory, certain that the next deal will be the one that finally makes it add up. The hustle goes on.

I started this wondering whether college still has value, whether it needs to change, whether what I was given is still being given. I think the answer is yes, but only if we remember what the education was actually for.

And somewhere there is a woman whose name I never knew, who rolled up her sleeve in a room full of college students and answered the question the month had been asking.

How then shall we live.

How then shall we not.

I am still working on both.

Books Referenced in This Post

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One Saturday at a Time

Four years ago the scale read 186. Today it tells a different story. This is the Forgiveness post — the hardest of the three to write, and the most honest.

Four years ago this spring, I stepped on a scale and it read 186. I had worked for almost two years to get there, and the work had shown up everywhere. New clothes in sizes I had not worn since college. Old energy back in the legs. Knees that did not complain when I stood up from the couch. The person in the mirror looked like someone I recognized again, which was not a small thing, because for a long stretch before that I had been avoiding mirrors the way some people avoid their inbox on a Monday morning.

Today the scale tells a different story. Not the one I want to tell, and not the one I had hoped to be telling four years later. Nothing dramatic happened in between, which is the part that took me the longest to understand, and the part that matters most for what this post is actually about.

I changed jobs somewhere in that stretch. That is probably a post for another Saturday, the one about the difference between academic life and the financial world, between a calendar that breathes and a calendar that does not. I will write that one later and spare you the full tour for now. What matters here is that the new work sat me down, the old rhythms did not fit the new life, and I did not build new ones fast enough. The body did what bodies do. It adjusted to what I was actually doing, not to what I meant to be doing. Turns out bodies are excellent listeners. Mine heard every excuse I made and took detailed notes.

The return was not a week or a month or a quarter. It was four years. It came on slowly, in small unremarkable increments, the way these things almost always do. There was no decision to point at, no bad stretch I can circle on a calendar and say this is where it went wrong, no villain. Just a slow drift, measured in pants sizes and the steadily growing list of things I did not want to look at too closely. That is the hardest kind of regression to explain, because there is no story in it. A bad month has a shape to it. A bad year has a cause you can name. Four years of gradual drift has neither, which is probably why so many people end up carrying some version of it quietly, with no good way to talk about it even when they want to.

Three weeks ago I wrote about why I started. Last week I wrote about what the scale does not tell you. Focus, then Facts. I told you there would be a third one, about Forgiveness, and here we are, which was always going to be the hardest of the three to write honestly.

I would love to report that writing those first two posts fixed something, that putting it in public and naming the framework and telling all five of my readers exactly what I was going to do was enough to break the pattern. That is the version of this post I wish I could write. It is not the one I am writing, because the last month has produced no meaningful progress, and that is on me. I know what to do. I am not doing it. The focus slips somewhere around Monday, the facts become negotiable by Wednesday, and by Friday I am telling myself the week was unusual and next week will be different. The weeks are never unusual. The weeks are the point, and pretending otherwise is how four years happen in the first place.

There have been family matters this spring that have required attention, and I am not going to write about them here. There has been travel. There has been what I consider the particular stress of spring, which always seems to arrive with more on the calendar than I remember agreeing to. None of that is an excuse, and I am not offering it as one. I mention it only because pretending the last month happened in a vacuum would be its own kind of dishonesty, and this post has no room for that.

What I usually do next, after a stretch like that, is spend a few days beating myself up about it. Quietly, mostly, but thoroughly. I run through the week, count the missed walks, replay the snacks I did not need, the water I did not drink, the extra serving, the dessert, and make a long internal case against myself that no actual courtroom would have let me bring. The lawyer in me knows better. The rest of me does it anyway. It does not change a single fact about the week that already happened, and it almost always makes the next week harder than it needed to be. This is the part they leave out of every motivational poster. The part where you know exactly what you did and you sit with it anyway.

That is the thing I have come to understand about Forgiveness, and it took me longer than it should have to get here. Forgiveness is not lowering the standard. It is not telling yourself the week did not count. It is not pretending the facts are something other than what they are. It is just the part where you stop prosecuting yourself long enough to get moving again. The setback already happened. That part is finished. The only thing still in front of you is how quickly you put the case down and start the next day.

Here is what I have learned after enough Mondays and enough fresh starts to know the difference. The people who make it back are not the ones with the most discipline or the most willpower or the best plan. They are the ones with the shortest recovery time. The ones who can look at a bad week honestly, set it down without ceremony, and show up the next morning anyway. That is the whole game. Not the falling. The getting up. And how long you spend on the floor in between.

The struggle is real, and I am not going to dress that up or sell it as something it is not. The fight continues, and I am not going to promise it is going better than it is. Forgiveness is the part that lets the fight continue at all, because without it, four years of drift becomes a reason to stop trying, and with it, four years of drift becomes a starting point. The same way it was a starting point in November of 2020 when I took that picture and looked at my face and decided I was done. The starting point is wherever you are standing. It is never where you wish you were standing, and waiting until you are somewhere better before you begin is just another way of not beginning.

So this morning I walked. This morning I also hope to play golf, weather permitting. This afternoon I will make choices about what I eat, and some of them will be the right ones and some will not. Tomorrow I will do it again. The ebb and the flow is not the obstacle. The ebb and the flow is the shape of it, and anyone who tells you otherwise is selling you something. Focus got me here. Facts tell me what to do now that I am here. Forgiveness is what keeps me here, on the days when here is not where I wanted to be by now. Four years. One Saturday at a time.

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What The Scale Doesn’t Tell You

Every morning, for nearly two years, I stepped on a scale. Same time. Same spot on the bathroom floor. I’d look down, note the number, and get on with my day.

The scale is an accountability partner. It doesn’t lie. It also doesn’t tell the whole story.

That distinction took me longer to understand than it should have. For a while, I treated the morning number like a verdict. Good day or bad day. Working or not working. And I’ll be honest, there is something genuinely satisfying about stepping on that scale and seeing the number go down. A small victory, delivered before the coffee is ready. I’m not going to pretend otherwise. But a verdict requires complete information, and the scale is working with a thin file. It knows what you weigh at 6:47 on a Thursday morning. It doesn’t know what you did for the six months before that, and it isn’t interested in finding out.

I figured this out slowly, the way you figure out most things that matter, not in a single moment, but in the accumulation of small observations that eventually add up to something you can’t ignore.

One of the things I started noticing was my heart rate. Early on, three miles was work. My heart rate on those morning walks told me my cardiovascular system was doing considerably more than it should have had to. But the number that really told the story was the one I saw when I wasn’t moving at all. Resting heart rate is quiet data. It doesn’t announce itself. It just sits there, and over time, if you’re making the right choices consistently, it goes down. That number dropping is the body reporting back that something has changed at a deeper level than the bathroom floor can measure. The scale hadn’t moved much yet. But the resting heart rate had, and it knew something the scale didn’t. I still track it. On the days I’m doing things right, it shows up in that number before it shows up anywhere else.

Then there was the afternoon. Somewhere after lunch, the energy would just leave. Not dramatically, no collapse, no moment you could point to. Just a slow drain. The enthusiasm that was there at nine o’clock wasn’t there at two. What I started noticing, over time, was that this was a signal. On the days I was eating well and drinking enough water, the drop was smaller. On the days I wasn’t, it wasn’t just physical, it was everything. Focus, mood, the will to make one more good decision before dinner. The afternoon became a report card I hadn’t asked for, and the grades weren’t always flattering.

Water is the one I simply didn’t think about. Not resisted, just ignored. It wasn’t a choice, it was an absence of attention. The frustrating part is that even now, knowing what I know about how much it matters, I still find myself at two in the afternoon realizing I haven’t had nearly enough. What I’ve learned is that water does more than hydrate. It fills me up in a way that quietly crowds out the bad decisions. It cleans me out in ways I’ll spare you the details on. And when I’m properly hydrated, I simply feel better. Not dramatically, not in a way I could put in a spreadsheet, but in the way that makes everything else a little more manageable. It is not a wellness trend. It is not a lifestyle brand. It’s water. I still have to remind myself to drink it.

A recent week on the road reminded me how much of this depends on owning your schedule. Business travel is the enemy of everything I’ve just described. You don’t pick when you eat. You don’t pick where you eat. The water bottle you keep on your desk at home is five time zones away. Hotel gyms are negotiations with yourself you usually lose. I’ve gotten better at it over time, packing a refillable bottle, walking the terminal between flights instead of sitting, ordering the thing I actually want rather than the thing I talked myself into because everyone else did. But I won’t pretend the road doesn’t bend the week out of shape. It does. The strategies help me come home without giving back everything I built. They don’t make the week itself easy.

The pants are the most honest instrument I own. There is a specific pair in my closet that I have used as a benchmark for longer than I’d care to admit. The scale might be unmoved on a given week. The pants don’t care about the scale. They fit or they don’t, and they have no interest in making me feel better about the difference. You cannot talk a pair of pants into flattering you.

What connects all of these things is the same lesson, approached from different angles: sustainable change is not linear, and the scoreboard you’re watching is probably not the most important one. One bad week is not the story. A number that moved the wrong direction on a Wednesday morning is not the story. The story is the direction of travel across months, and you can only see it if you’re paying attention to more than one thing at a time.

I have been walking daily since long before this series started. The streak exists not because I have unusual discipline, but because I learned something that intensity never teaches you: consistency compounds in ways that don’t show up in a single morning. The fitness industry will not sell you this, because you cannot package it in a six-week program.

A sprint gets you somewhere fast. Consistency gets you somewhere real.

The scale will tell you the truth. Just not all of it. Learning to read the rest of the room, that’s the work nobody puts on the box.

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Saturday Routine

“I do not have a formal degree from the University of Michigan. I have something more valuable. A certificate of completion. Think of it as the Gen X version of a participation trophy.”

Last Monday, my beloved Michigan Wolverines won the NCAA Men’s Basketball National Championship. I have fielded the same question all week. What is your connection to Michigan? Did you go there? Are you from there?

The answer is simple. And complicated.

I do not have a formal degree from the University of Michigan. I have something more valuable. A certificate of completion. Think of it as the Gen X version of a participation trophy. I did serious post-graduate executive training there, which counts for something, at least in my mind. My uncle lived in Michigan for years and raised his family there. I gave genuine consideration to attending law school at Michigan. Unfortunately, Michigan did not give the same consideration to me. Perhaps it was my law school admissions scores. We will leave it there.

But the moment I fell in love with Michigan and its flagship university is easy to trace. My wife and I honeymooned at Mackinac Island. In nearly 25 years of marriage, we have returned to the island no fewer than 17 times. In the early years it was annual. It is woven into us in a way that is hard to explain to someone who has not stood on that island and understood immediately why you would keep coming back.

So when the final seconds ran out Monday night, it was not just a scoreboard. It was something older than that. And somehow, with the college basketball season now over, it feels like permission. Winter is done and spring can begin. Rightfully so, a small world is turning its attention to Augusta for a tradition like no other. The Masters is on. Saturday morning is about to change its address.

Augusta has pristine emerald fairways and perfectly manicured greens. It is the kind of green that makes you envious until you remember what Georgia feels like in July. The envy passes. My head has been somewhere else most of the week, and I am not apologizing for it.

Consider what a Saturday morning routine actually is. Not what it looks like on the surface — coffee, a dog, a tee time — but what it does. It is a standing appointment with a version of yourself. You show up to the same place at the same time, and over months and years, that consistency builds something you did not plan for. It makes you findable. Not just to yourself, but to everyone who has ever known you.

Outside of golf season, Saturday morning means Josiah’s. Same line, same order. Ginger handles public relations. I handle the coffee. She is better at her job than I am at mine. This past February, two Saturdays in a row, a former student appeared in line behind me. Same opening line both times.

“Professor Harris, I’m not sure you remember me.”

This is not a coincidence. It is not luck. It is what happens when you show up to the same place reliably enough that the people from your past know exactly where to look. I have taught roughly 1,200 students. I did not seek any of them out. I just kept showing up, and they found me. That is the quiet power of a routine that most people never think to name.

I always need a hint. I am always glad they said hello.

Golf season is a different Saturday entirely. Same day of the week, same general idea. Get outside. Move around. Spend time with people you stopped explaining yourself to a long time ago. We have been playing together for close to thirty years. There was no ceremony when that number arrived. You just look up one day, do the math, and feel briefly old before someone hits a bad shot and the feeling passes.

It is more about being outside than keeping score, but we always keep score.

Here is what thirty years of Saturday mornings with the same group actually produces. It is not a scoreboard. It is not even a friendship in the way most people define the word. It is something closer to a shared language. A set of references and rhythms that require no explanation because they were built slowly, Saturday by Saturday, across decades. You do not have to catch these people up. They were there.

Nobody on the fairway is going to tap me on the shoulder and ask if I remember them. Josiah’s is where the past finds you. The golf course is where you go to be exactly who you are right now, with people who knew you before you figured that out. Play your own game.

The line at Josiah’s will be there in October. Same order. Winter will come back, the courses will close, and Saturday morning will find its way back inside. There will probably be another former student behind me in line who is not sure I remember them. I will. I always need a hint, but I remember. That is what the line is for. Showing up to the same place long enough that the people who once sat in your classroom know where to find you.

For now, it is almost time. The same group. The same course. The same morning light that makes me think you might actually be good at this. I am not.

Don’t tell Ginger.

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The Long View of Friendship

Every spring, I send the same text. Just a few words asking whether they are in this year. Same message for thirty-nine years. Only the delivery has changed.

It started with a floor in Bergsaker Hall, a shared love of the Minnesota Twins, and a World Series nobody saw coming. What followed was nearly four decades of games, road trips, bad food, one covert operation that would have impressed the CIA, and conversations that always end up somewhere back in college.

The scores are gone. The games are not. This is a story about what stays.

I sent a text this week. Nothing complicated. Just asked whether they were in this year, and we started working on a date. It used to be a face-to-face conversation, then a phone call, then an email, and now it is a text. Same basic message for thirty-nine years. Only the delivery changed.

 

We met freshman year of college, a group of us living on the same floor in Bergsaker Hall. Different hometowns. Different majors. Different ideas about where life was headed, most of them wrong. We probably do not find each other without college doing what college does best, throwing a bunch of strangers together and letting time do its work. If you are lucky, a few of those strangers become people you are still texting nearly four decades later.

 

What we had in common, as it turned out, was the Minnesota Twins. That was enough. In 1987, that was more than enough.

 

For most of our lives, the Twins had been mediocre or worse. Then suddenly they were not. They played in a dome built for football, with plexiglass in left field, the Baggie in right, and acoustics that made the whole place feel like a washing machine on spin cycle. Other teams complained about it. We took that as a compliment.

 

They barely got into the playoffs. Nobody outside Minnesota thought they were real. Then they won the whole thing anyway. If you were college age and a Twins fan that fall, watching it happen with people who mattered to you, something got locked in.

* * *

Thirty-nine years of going to Twins games with friends, and I could not build you a proper box score from more than two of them. The first was September 27, 1987, that same fall, before the World Series run was even finished. It was the final home game of the year, and you could feel the buzz because everybody was hoping the Twins were headed to the playoffs. Sunday game. One o’clock first pitch. We got up early, stopped at Mr. Donut, piled into a car, and drove four hours like this was an entirely reasonable use of a weekend. Somewhere I still have the ticket stub.

 

There was a double play in the top of the first inning, ground ball to third, force at second, throw home, a 5-4-2, which is a weird little baseball gem. The Twins scored five in the bottom half before half the crowd had settled in. I had to look up the five runs. I did not have to look up the double play. That seems about right. I could not tell you what I had for breakfast yesterday, but I can still see that play. The Twins won. They clinched a playoff spot. More than 53,000 people went home happy.

 

Then there is Game 7 in 1991. Jack Morris. Ten innings. No runs. One of the best baseball games ever played, and somehow we were there. How we got the tickets involves a romantic subplot, and at this age I think it is better left slightly blurry. Another Sunday. Another four-hour drive. Then a celebration in the streets of Minneapolis, followed by turning around and driving four hours home because Monday was still coming, and apparently we were still pretending to be responsible people.

 

Everything else has blurred, which is fine. Blur has its own value. There was a game where the Twins were losing by so much that we started rooting for the other team, just to see a better brand of baseball before the day was over. There was one of the last games in the Metrodome, sitting right down the third base line in front of the visitors bullpen, close enough to hear everything and probably say a few things we should not have. There was one of the first games at Target Field, when the place was still new enough that we were wandering around like tourists, and somehow we ended up in the Legends Club.

 

You do not accidentally end up in the Legends Club. Somehow we had acquired two tickets even though there were four of us, and this was before the sophisticated scanning devices you see at ballparks now. So getting everybody in required a plan. And we had one. The kind of plan that would have made a CIA operations officer nod with quiet approval. Timing, nerve, precise execution, and the kind of straight-faced confidence usually reserved for people with actual credentials. We divided roles without discussion. Each person went in at the right moment, no hesitation, no eye contact, no deviation from the plan. A Navy SEAL team could not have done it cleaner. We were absolutely not supposed to be there. We stayed as long as we could. That remains one of my favorite life skills, the ability to act like you belong somewhere just long enough.

 

The scores are gone. The games are not.

 

Some things have changed. We started in the three dollar general admission seats, upper deck, outfield, way out where the baseball looked more like theory than sport. That was college. Cheap tickets, long drives, no money, no hesitation. Now we often pay more than one hundred dollars each for a game, and more often than not we end up in the Legends Club. The same place we once slipped into like it was a minor covert operation. Turns out if you live long enough, some of the places you used to sneak into will eventually just let you buy a ticket.

 

The food changed too, and not always for the better. That day in the Legends Club was the first time we learned stadium food could mean a lot more than hot dogs and Cracker Jack. We still like to inspect the ballpark menu, which is not a sentence our younger selves would have seen coming. When we do end up in the Legends Club — which has had enough corporate sponsors over the years that keeping up with the current name feels like a part-time job — we still usually come back with basic stadium fare because change is hard. But games have never quite been the same since the Hormel Dome Dog failed to make the move to Target Field. That comes up too, usually right after someone has settled for something that is not a Dome Dog and knows it.

* * *

In the beginning, the conversations were about college. What was happening on campus. What we were going to do with our lives. Who we were dating and how that was going, which was a mixed bag at best. We thought we were fascinating.

 

Then the years did what years do. Jobs. Cars. Spouses. Kids. Aging parents. Politics, when everyone felt sufficiently rested and charitable. The whole messy architecture of adult life, covered inning by inning over three decades. But we always end up back in college, because that is what happens when people have known you that long. Nobody lets you stay in your current form for very long. Somebody always remembers the earlier draft.

 

We still talk about professors we loved and professors we endured. Classes that mattered and classes we survived. Basketball games and football games that once felt like the center of the universe. Former romantic interests always make an appearance. They always will. And sooner or later, somebody brings up Nite City.

 

Nite City was a dance club near campus that we were convinced was sophisticated. It was not. But it had drink specials, and it had people from our college, and at that age that is really the whole formula. The facts are usually off now. The feeling is still exactly right.

* * *

The season started this week, and my hand reached for the phone before I had thought it through. That is all it takes. The Twins play a few games, and thirty-nine years of the same reflex kicks in.

 

For most of that time, the core group has been the same three of us. Others have joined in different years, depending on schedules and seasons of life. But lately it has settled back to the three, which feels about right. The text goes out. The replies come back. Then at some point we are sitting in that ballpark, talking about this year, then 1987, then somebody’s kids, then something dumb we did in college, then some old story that gets less accurate and somehow better every time it gets told.

 

I probably will not remember this year’s score either. That is what scores do. They fade. But I will remember who was there. I will remember what we talked about that had almost nothing to do with baseball. I will remember the feel of Target Field on a summer night when the season is still young and hope is still allowed to be a little irrational.

 

We were college age and convinced the Twins would just keep winning. They did not. But we kept showing up anyway, which turned out to be the more important habit.

 

Thirty-nine years. One text. Still working on a date.

 

Some things you just keep doing. Not because you mapped it out. Not because you saw the whole arc coming. Just because somewhere along the way it became part of your life, then part of your identity, and finally just part of you.

* * *

That is the long view of friendship. It does not look like much from the outside. From the inside, it is everything.

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Why I Started — And Why That Still Matters

In November 2020, I took a picture to make people laugh. It didn’t go the way I planned. What followed was the hardest and most important journey of my life. Some of it has slipped. Here is why I am starting again, and why the reason I started still matters more than anything else.

I began this blog to talk about how and why I was able to recapture my life by losing weight. The inaugural post was titled “Fat, Fifty and Fatigued,” and I meant every word of it. I do regular check-ins to see if I am happy with where I stand from a health standpoint. The honest answer lately is no. Since leaving academia to return to the financial field, some of the weight has crept back. The schedule changed, the rhythms changed, and somewhere in the transition the habits I had built started to erode. So recently I decided to begin the journey again. To get back to where I was, and maybe further. To do that, I need to go back to where it started. It all started with a picture.
The picture was taken on a Thursday, a week before Thanksgiving, 2020. It was warm enough that wearing a hoodie felt like a small act of rebellion against the season. I was teaching from my home office, which meant I could wear whatever I wanted, and I wanted everyone to know it. So I took a picture and posted it. Look at me. No tie. No commute. Just a guy in a hoodie, conducting class from his living room, winning the pandemic. And then I looked at my face in that picture, really looked at it, and the joke stopped being funny.
That was the moment. Not a doctor’s appointment, not a conversation with anyone who loved me. A selfie.
That picture was taken in the middle of one of the strangest falls any of us can remember. The country was a mess, and I was not in great shape either. The election had been called but half the country wasn’t ready to accept it. COVID was getting worse, not better. And every time you turned on the news, someone was talking about who was most at risk. They kept using the word comorbidity. I had to look it up the first time I heard it. It basically means the conditions that make you more likely to die. Obesity was on the list. High blood pressure was on the list. I had most of the list, and I felt it every day. Every night when the heartburn woke me up. Every time I caught myself in a picture and looked away. I was not just overweight. I was a walking risk factor and I had been for years, and until that Thursday in November I had been very good at not thinking about it too hard.
My oldest brother died that September, two months before I took that picture. Both of my brothers were born with extra DNA that hindered their development, leaving them vulnerable not just to viruses but to complications most of us never have to think about. COVID found him anyway. I was still carrying that loss when I posted the hoodie picture, still in that strange suspended grief where you go through the motions of normal life because there is nothing else to do. One week after I made the decision to start losing weight, my other brother came down with COVID. There were some touch and go moments. We made the call to get him to the hospital where he had a fighting chance. Unlike my oldest, I was able to visit him. He was there for a couple of weeks, and then he came home. He is still with us today. And somewhere in those weeks of waiting and visiting and hoping, I kept going. Because I had just watched COVID take a man who had no choice about his vulnerabilities. I had a choice. I was not going to waste it.
At my peak, according to my scale, I weighed 252 pounds. I had never said that out loud before I wrote it in 2021, and even then it felt strange to put it in public. There it is. I didn’t want to be a statistic. I didn’t want my family to lose me the same year they had already lost so much. So I started.
The timing helped, and if you read last week’s post, you already know why. A semester doesn’t wind down gradually. It collapses. Around Thanksgiving the intensity breaks, the calendar starts to breathe, and for the first time since August there is actual white space. That is what I had in November 2020. A picture I could not stop thinking about, a grief I was still learning to carry, and for the first time in a long time the capacity to focus on something I could actually control.
By 2022 I was at 186. Everything got better. The knees stopped hurting. The acid reflux that had woken me up almost every night for years was just gone. I bought new clothes in sizes I hadn’t worn since college. I felt like myself again, or maybe a version of myself I had given up on finding.
And then, gradually, some of it came back.
The financial world doesn’t have semesters. There is no Thanksgiving wind-down, no January slow start, no built-in breathing room. The days got longer, the schedule got tighter, and the habits I had built around a particular kind of life stopped fitting the new one. I didn’t lose the plot all at once. It happened slowly, one small compromise at a time, until I did a check-in one day and didn’t like what I found.
Here is what I know now that I didn’t fully understand the first time. Losing weight is hard. Keeping it off is a different kind of hard, and nobody really prepares you for that part. Motivation comes and goes. Discipline gets tired. The only thing that actually holds is knowing your why, specifically enough that you can find your way back to it when things go sideways. I have done this long enough to know that is true.
My why hasn’t changed. I don’t want to be a burden. I want to be around for the people who count on me. I want to feel the way I felt in 2022, when the knees didn’t hurt and the clothes fit and I had enough energy to actually show up for my life. That was true in November 2020 and it is true right now. The number on the scale has changed. The reason has not.
Focus. Facts. Forgiveness. That is the framework that worked for me the first time and it is what I am coming back to. Focus means knowing your why and keeping it close. The Facts piece means understanding what actually works, not what you hope will work. Forgiveness means accepting that setbacks are part of it, that starting over is not failure, it is just what comes next. Over the coming weeks I am going to walk through each one. If you are on this road too, I hope something here is useful. If you are just starting, welcome. You are in the right place.

Word count: 944 words.

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The Rhythm Is Gonna Get You: Circadian Rhythm, Spring, and Why Timing Matters

Gloria Estefan warned us: the rhythm is gonna get you. A reflection on circadian rhythm, academic life, and why spring feels like the only real beginning.

Gloria Estefan warned us. The rhythm is gonna get you. You can fight it for a while, but it always wins, usually at the worst possible time. Everything has a rhythm. The seasons. The school year. A marriage. Some people find theirs early and live inside it comfortably. Others spend decades bumping around looking for it. The rhythm does not wait for you to figure it out. It is coming for you regardless.

My wife figured this out a long time ago. The rest of us are still working on it.

For the most part, she goes to bed at the same time and wakes up at the same time. It does not matter the day, season, weather, or location. At some point she informed me this was called a circadian rhythm. For years, I nodded and smiled like I understood, which is generally how I handle most things, and then went about my day. But with the arrival of Copilot and ChatGPT, I was finally able to dig into it in a way my small brain could understand. That is how I found myself learning about my suprachiasmatic nucleus, located in the hypothalamus, nestled deep within the brain’s center, positioned below the thalamus and above the pituitary gland. Of course it is. This naturally led me to wonder whether mine had been injured in my January fall. I asked my wife, who works at a hospital. She told me I was fine. Just more irritating.

Further research suggests a handful of best practices for keeping your circadian rhythm aligned. My wife does all of them. She has a blinding light she activates each morning like she’s signaling aircraft. She goes to bed and wakes up at the same time every day, weekends included. She limits screens before bed, with a carve-out for Law & Order and Dateline, because apparently procedural crime dramas are melatonin-neutral. She eats on schedule. And caffeine, well, that deserves its own piece entirely.

Gloria Estefan. My wife. My mother. Fine. The rhythm got me.

For a long time, my rhythm was the academic year. August was pure optimism. You built syllabi, mapped out lesson plans, and convinced yourself this was the year everything would click. You would reach every student. You would teach differently. You would get it right.

Then the first faculty meeting hit. It was Dorothy throwing water on the Wicked Witch, except the melt took until May. Nothing kills momentum like a three-hour meeting about parking, assessment, and what absolutely must be in the general education curriculum that no student has ever once cared about. Even better when faculty from entirely different disciplines are sorted into small groups to solve these problems together. Nothing says higher education like a chemist, a music theorist, and a medieval historian trying to reach consensus.

The best part was that you could always tell exactly which discipline someone was from without ever seeing their name tag. Communications professors liked to speak, at length, about speaking. Biology and chemistry professors made everything about the scientific method, including whether the agenda had a proper hypothesis. Philosophy professors asked questions no one could answer, which they considered progress. History professors talked about the past, often at the expense of the present. English professors, being mostly gentle souls, just wanted to fix things, quietly noting that the third bullet point contained a squinting modifier and the mission statement had a dangling participle. Could we perhaps offer a friendly amendment? Business and accounting professors wanted to discuss the finances and would, given any opening, perform a SWOT analysis on everything, including the parking situation. And the business law professor felt a deep, personal obligation to remind the room that a friendly amendment is not actually a thing. You cannot offer one. It is not valid. It never was. Everyone asked anyway.

And yet, the meeting did not kill the August optimism. Not entirely.

Because then the students arrived. The campus came back to life. The halls filled up. And somewhere in the chaos of the first week you remembered exactly why you were there.

The fall semester was fun right up until the first round of exams and homecoming, whichever came first. If the football team was winning, the campus was noticeably happier, which tells you everything you need to know about higher education. Somewhere along the way, quietly and without fanfare, the great ideas from August disappeared. The innovative plans, the creative approaches, the belief that this year would be different, gone. Professors taught the way they always had, the way their professors had taught them. Innovation, it turns out, has a shelf life of about four weeks. But even that was part of the rhythm. Hope arrives in August. Reality settles in by October. Every year, right on schedule.

Then came the first round of illness, like it had its own place on the calendar, and we limped into fall break having earned it. And promptly wrecked our circadian rhythms for four straight days, which my wife would like me to point out is everything she would never do.

October turned to November, and suddenly it was registration, projects, and round two of exams. We stumbled into Thanksgiving slightly disheveled, definitely behind, and unreasonably relieved we had made it at all. Every class after Thanksgiving felt optional, whether anyone admitted it or not. For all practical purposes, everyone agreed to pretend otherwise. Students and faculty alike did what academics do best under pressure, negotiating, rationalizing, and convincing themselves a paper submitted at 11:58 p.m. represented genuine scholarship. And then it was over. By Christmas, the greatest gift was silence.

Spring semester was different, though not in the way you might hope. Fall arrived like a first date. Spring arrived like a Monday morning. Everyone knew what was coming and nobody was particularly excited about it. The energy was lower. The novelty gone. You already knew some of the students, which was either comforting or concerning.

February tested everyone. The holidays were a distant memory. Spring break was not close enough to matter. The days were gray and identical. You taught. They sat. Everyone just got through it.

Then March arrived. And March meant spring. And spring meant just enough hope to keep everyone moving.

Students left for spring break and returned tan and suspiciously cheerful, having traded a meaningful number of brain cells and part of their liver for the experience. They all came back physically. But something stayed in Florida. You could see it in their eyes, that faraway look of someone who had briefly escaped and had not yet accepted that they hadn’t.

As the weather warmed, attention drifted toward the windows and away from the board. The same was true for me. By March, I was done pretending otherwise. I had graded enough papers and sat through enough meetings to know that when the sun finally showed up with intent, something shifted. The same projects were back, just with new due dates and the same dread. But it felt manageable. The days were getting longer. The end was finally in sight. The rhythm was doing what it always does, pulling everyone forward whether they were ready or not.

And then it was over. Students moved out. Graduation happened. And then the campus went quiet. Beautifully, mercifully quiet.

I have not stood in front of a classroom in years. But every March, something stirs anyway. Old habits. Old rhythms.

Which brings me to now.

What is my rhythm if not the academic year? The calendar year never made much sense to me. January has never felt like a beginning. Short days. Dark skies. Cold everything. January feels less like a beginning and more like a life sentence.

Then we spring forward, which feels like something designed by Satan. A small disruption, but enough to remind you how fragile the whole system is.

And then, almost without warning, it changes.

Spring arrives.

Spring is August of the academic year. It is January with actual hope. The grass turns green. Leaves return. Flowers push through the ground. And then there is that first warm Saturday where you find yourself standing outside for no reason at all, just because you can. That is when you know it is back.

And baseball season starts. There is something about opening day, the impossibly green grass, the crack of a bat, the unhurried pace of a game that refuses to hurry, that feels like the world exhaling after a long winter. On opening day, every team is undefeated. Every fan is a believer. For a while, that is enough.

Spring does not just arrive. It reminds you that things come back. That the world has a rhythm, and if you are patient enough, it finds you again. My wife, of course, already knew all of this.

Some of us just needed a few decades. And a March morning.

Gloria was right.

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What the Day Means

This past weekend, many people celebrated St. Patrick’s Day. A massive snowstorm celebrated back. I missed the parade. I did our taxes.

Fair warning, this one is longer than most. I started writing and couldn’t stop. Hopefully you will indulge. Mothers deserve more attention.

I’m old enough to remember when St. Patrick’s Day was actually celebrated on March 17. Then someone probably decided it conflicted with March Madness and the next thing you know it’s drifting around the calendar like a bar promotion looking for a Saturday. Which, honestly, is all it ever was for most people. I just preferred the fiction.

Here’s what most people don’t know about March 17, nor do they care. It’s not St. Patrick’s birthday. It’s not the day he drove the snakes out of Ireland, and for the record, there apparently weren’t any snakes in Ireland to begin with, which makes that particular miracle less impressive upon reflection. We celebrate March 17 because it’s believed to be the day St. Patrick died, in 461 AD. The Irish built a party around a death anniversary. For me, that’s always been a strange thing to celebrate.

My mom was raised an Irish Catholic, and she loved St. Patrick’s Day the way she loved most things, fully, and with very little patience for people who didn’t. She loved a big party, loved an occasion, and could walk into a room full of strangers and leave knowing everyone. Not in a working-the-room way. In a genuine way. People wanted to be around her because being around her felt like something. She also had strong opinions about most things, and the wisdom to know when to share them, which turns out to be a much rarer combination than it sounds. She died on March 17, 2005, and I’m not a huge fan of this day. But here we are again, twenty-one years later, parade missed, taxes done, and I find myself back at this keyboard trying to figure out what this day is asking of me now and whether I have a better answer than I did the last time.

I’ve written about March 17 twice before. In 2022, I wrote about the sweater. Bright, multicolored, chosen by her on the last morning of her life. She had Parkinson’s for thirteen years and it took most of what made her her, slowly and without mercy. But that morning she picked the right sweater. In 2024, I wrote about standing on a sidewalk the day she died, holding the hand of a two-year-old who had no idea what had just happened and very much wanted to see some floats.

I didn’t want to go to that parade. I wanted to sit somewhere quiet and let the day be what it was. But he wanted to see the parade, and she would have wanted him to see it, and those two things together were enough to get me to the curb. He was completely, unreservedly delighted the way two-year-olds are, without conditions, without any awareness of what it cost the person next to him to be standing there. I was grateful for that. Uncomplicated joy turns out to be exactly what you need when everything else is the opposite of uncomplicated.

That two-year-old is an adult now, my son, and I’ve been thinking lately about how well he and my mom would have gotten along. They would have found each other immediately, compared notes, and spent a considerable amount of time making fun of me together, shamelessly and with great enthusiasm. I would have been irritated. I would have given anything for it.

He walks into a room and something shifts. Not in a loud way, he’s not performing anything. People just want to be near him, want to talk to him, want to know what he thinks. Strangers become less strange around him. He has opinions about everything, and like her, he knows exactly when to use them — and when to put them down in service of the people in the room. He reads the room the way some people read a clock, naturally and without thinking about it. He shows up for people, genuinely, reliably, in the ways that actually count. And he loves a good party, which in this family is less a preference than a personality trait passed down like eye color. And like her, he finds a way to get on camera. For the record, he will be missed this March Madness.

I’ve watched him in rooms the way I used to watch her in rooms, and the feeling is the same. The particular warmth of watching someone who doesn’t have to try to make people feel welcome because it never occurred to them that anyone might not be.

She never met him as the person he became. Parkinson’s had been taking her for years by the time he arrived, and she died when he was two, and the version of her that could have really known him, the sharp, funny, opinionated, life-of-the-party version, was already mostly gone by then. That’s the loss inside the loss, the one that doesn’t get talked about as much. It’s not just that he lost a grandmother. It’s that they lost each other, and neither of them got to know what they were missing.

But here’s the thing I’ve come to understand, slowly and without any dramatic moment of revelation. She didn’t disappear. She just carried forward. The warmth with strangers, the stubbornness, the peacemaking, the way a room feels different when he walks in, the absolute conviction that life is better with more people in it and the volume turned up, that’s not coincidence. That’s her, showing up in the next generation, wearing different clothes.

She would have recognized him immediately. And she would have adored him, and he would have adored her, and together they would have been a handful, and I mean that as the best possible thing I could say about either of them.

Here’s what twenty-one years teaches you. Grief doesn’t leave. It just stops being the loudest thing in the room. In the early years it’s everywhere. It answers your phone, comes to work with you, sits across from you at dinner and says nothing. But if you’re patient with it, and patient with yourself, it eventually learns to share the space. It lets other things back in, joy, distraction, a walk on a good morning. Twenty-one years in, grief and I have an arrangement. It gets March 17. I get the rest of the calendar.

Those words — your mother died — don’t stop being true. They just stop being the only thing that’s true. She loved a big party, she picked the right sweater, and somewhere in a son who lights up rooms and shows up for people and knows exactly when to say the right thing, she is still very much present. You don’t have to believe in anything supernatural to believe that. You just have to pay attention.

Life is worth showing up for. She knew that. Turns out, so does he.

This weekend I missed the parade and did our taxes. She would have had opinions about both. The taxes she would have understood, reluctantly. The missed parade she would have given me grief about for years, which, now that I think about it, would have been its own kind of gift. Happy St. Patrick’s Day, Mom. You would have loved this one. You’d have especially loved who else showed up.

The sweater is still here. And in all the ways that matter, so are you.

This is the third March 17 I’ve written about here. The first two are here and here. New readers, start there. Returning readers, thank you for coming back.

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The next 30 million steps

Six years of walking at least 10,000 steps a day taught me a lot about perseverance. A fall in my driveway taught me even more about perspective.

In 1989, the first Life Alert commercial hit television. A woman on the floor yelling into a necklace: “I’ve fallen and I can’t get up.”

To a twenty-something watching it at the time, the whole scenario seemed absurd. That was a problem for Old People, somewhere far down the road, probably around the same time you start voluntarily eating bran for breakfast.

Life, of course, has a way of adjusting your perspective.

Given my recent fall in the driveway, that famous line suddenly felt less like a punchline and more like a documentary. Gravity made a convincing argument, and the driveway won the debate.

In last week’s blog post, I joked that only five people read the essay and two of them probably clicked the link by accident. At least I think I was joking. The analytics suggest I may not have been. But those five readers were clearly paying attention. Within hours I received several helpful suggestions, including one enthusiastic recommendation that I start “walking by five in the morning,” which I assume is now considered medical advice.

Last week also marked six years of walking at least 10,000 steps a day. Other than writing about it here, the milestone passed with almost no fanfare, which frankly felt appropriate. Nearly 30 million steps sounds impressive until you realize most of those miles were not heroic. They were cold mornings, windy afternoons, and sidewalks that could politely be described as uninspiring. Plenty of days the couch made a very strong closing argument. People assume a streak like that is about discipline or health, and those things matter. My knees appreciate it. My doctor probably does too. But after six years, I’ve realized the real benefit isn’t physical. Mostly, it’s perspective.

And perspective has a funny way of making you look at familiar things differently.

This week the streak continued, but I changed a few things up. Same commitment, just a slightly different angle.

One morning I walked a familiar route in the opposite direction, clockwise instead of counterclockwise. Another day the treadmill got involved, and I started playing with the incline and speed like a bored airline pilot. One morning I swapped the usual podcast for music.

Small adjustments, same routine. And something interesting happened. By making those subtle changes, I started noticing things in my own neighborhood that I hadn’t seen before. An electric utility box that had always been hidden from one direction but stood out clearly from the other. A tree I don’t remember ever seeing, even though it must have been there the entire time. I noticed the sunlight hitting houses, water, and the sidewalk differently depending on the angle. Turns out sometimes the only thing that changes is the direction you’re looking from.

It reminded me of something I once heard from pro golfer Dicky Pride. When Pride prepares for tournaments, he sometimes walks the course backward during practice rounds. Not playing it that way, obviously, just studying it.

His explanation stuck with me. Golf course designers are good at their jobs. They know exactly where players look and where the traps appear when you approach a hole the way it was designed to be played. From the tee forward, the course tells you a story.

Walk it backward and suddenly you see something else. You see where the trouble really sits, and you notice angles you missed. The fairway that looked generous from the tee suddenly looks a lot narrower when you’re standing on the green looking back. The bunkers make more sense, and the danger becomes clearer.

Same course, different perspective.

Six years ago I started walking because I wanted to feel better. What I didn’t realize was that the real value wouldn’t be the miles behind me. It would be the perspective that comes from continuing to put one foot in front of the other. The real story was never the first 30 million steps. It’s the next 30 million.

The weather is finally starting to warm up, which means Ginger is thrilled the streak continues. She has always been a strong advocate for additional walking. So tomorrow morning we’ll head out again, same sidewalks and same neighborhood, maybe clockwise, maybe counterclockwise. Sometimes the best way to see things differently is simply to keep walking — just from another direction, toward the next 30 million steps.

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Six Years. Nearly 30 Million Steps. My Dog Is Thrilled.

The streak has become a daily permission slip to call the day a success. Some days it is a gift, a good conversation, an unexpected view, twenty quiet minutes nobody can touch. Other days it is just a man and his kitchen. Either way, you keep moving, and that is the philosophy.

Fair warning. If you have followed this blog for any length of time, you know what is coming. I have written about this before. My five loyal readers are nodding. The other two are still trying to find the exit. Feel free to skim. I mostly write these for myself anyway. It is cheaper than therapy and the co pay is better. Still, stay with me. Maybe something here lands for you too.

January was brutal, and I wrote about it. Somehow it became the most viewed post in the five year history of this blog. Apparently the best thing I ever did for readership was fall down. February was merely hard, and through all of it there was the streak. Today it turns six years old.

That means two thousand one hundred ninety one consecutive days. Not one missed. No exceptions. At least 10,000 steps every single day.

Nearly 30 million steps. Over 13,000 miles. An average of 13,500 steps a day. Thirteen thousand miles, on foot, mostly on ordinary days.

The last two months tested the streak more than most. I am still hurting from the fall in January, and my neck and back remind me every morning that gravity won. Some days I stand up slowly and negotiate with muscles that are not interested in compromise. There were days, more than I would like to admit, when I considered letting it go because six years felt like a respectable number. Instead, I pressed on.

Here is what that actually looks like sometimes. It is 8:57 p.m. I am tired. The weather is ugly. My neck and back are staging a formal protest. And there I am, walking circles around the main floor of my house, because every loop is 75 steps and I still need 1,256.

It is not scenic. It is not Instagram worthy. It is a middle aged man shuffling past his own kitchen for the fourteenth time while his dog watches with concerned confusion. But the steps get done and the streak survives, and somewhere in that absurd little ritual is the whole point. Some days, showing up looks nothing like you imagined, and it counts anyway.

The streak has become a daily permission slip to call the day a success. Some days it is a gift, a good conversation, an unexpected view, twenty quiet minutes nobody can touch. Other days it is just a man and his kitchen. Either way, you keep moving, and that is the philosophy.

Six years of daily movement has not made me stronger. It has made me steadier and less dramatic about hard days. I am more willing now to do the small, boring thing that keeps everything else from unraveling. The change was not heroic or loud. It was ordinary, and it stuck.

Today feels like spring’s opening act. The snow has mostly surrendered. I spotted a robin doing that smug little robin thing like it never left, and the days are stretching longer. Year seven will not be about intensity. It will be about curiosity. I want new trails, new neighborhoods, and roads I have never turned down before, because discipline got me here and curiosity can take it from here.

That is where you come in. Yes, you, all five of you plus the two still searching for the exit. If you have a favorite two or three mile route, send it my way and consider it your contribution to year seven. I cannot promise I will get to all of them, but I can promise I will keep moving.

Six years ago this started as a way to survive a pandemic. Now it is the anchor in chaotic mornings and the release valve at the end of hard days. It is quiet proof that I showed up for myself again, even when showing up meant walking past my own kitchen for the fourteenth time.

If I am honest, though, I am not the one who benefits most. Spring means real walks again, trails and air that does not sting. It means doors that open on purpose and paws that hit pavement with enthusiasm. Discipline is easier when someone is waiting by the door.

She has watched the kitchen laps and endured the treadmill indignity. She has waited on cold mornings with complete certainty that today would be worth it. She was right, because six years and nearly 30 million steps later, it was never really about mileage. In the end, it was always about the dog.

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Office Hours at Josiah’s: Do You Remember Me?

Teaching is more than just imparting knowledge; it’s about building lasting relationships and witnessing personal growth. Despite the lack of financial rewards, the joy of connecting with students remains unmatched.

Outside of golf season, when I am in town, I spend 45 quiet minutes with Ginger, a cup of coffee, and my thoughts in my usual booth at Josiah’s. Ginger handles public relations. You can follow her on Instagram @sdgingerdoodle. She is better at this than I am.

For Ginger, the best part is when kids ask to pet her. The second best is when they spill something on the floor.

For the past two Saturdays, the person in line behind me has been a former student. Same place. Different Saturday. Same opening line.

“Professor Harris, I’m not sure you remember me.”

That is a reasonable question. I have taught roughly 1,200 students. When I did the math, it stopped me. That is not a number. That is a neighborhood or, in South Dakota, a mid-sized town. I knew every name during the semester. Ten years later, without the Business Law textbook in your hands, I may need a hint.

Today, the former student I met in line told me she and her husband had moved away, later had children, and recently moved back. Now she is in school again and loving it. She asked if I remembered a friend from class. They still keep in touch. Of course I remembered. That is a life lived between cups of coffee.

I love these meetings. I love hearing what you built after class ended. I love knowing you still talk to people from that room.

At some point the question comes. Do you miss teaching? I do. I miss the relationships. I miss watching confidence take shape. I do not miss the pay. I do not miss the administration.

So if you see me at Josiah’s or anywhere else, say hello. Tell me who you are, or make me work for it. I would love to hear your story.

But only if I was your favorite.

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Not a Hockey Fan, Except Every Four Years

I will begin with full disclosure. I am not a hockey fan. In fact, I do not particularly like the sport, which is awkward considering the number of people who do. A few years ago, when the university where I work announced they were starting a Division I hockey program, I remember thinking that was the stupidest thing I had ever heard. If I am honest, part of me still thinks that, although I will concede that the food at the games is surprisingly good and sometimes that counts for something.

Simply put, hockey has always felt like a sporting event designed to expose my weaknesses. The puck disappears like a small black ghost. The action feels chaotic. I am never entirely sure whether I am watching a hockey game or a hockey match, or whether I am supposed to call it something else entirely, like a tilt or a contest, or perhaps just remain silent and nod respectfully while someone in a vintage jersey explains icing to me for the fifth time. The rules seem designed for people who grew up with skates on their feet, and I did not.

And yet, for two weeks every four years, hockey becomes the center of my attention. It interrupts my schedule and pulls me back in the way certain songs do, whether you want them to or not. That began in 1980, and the hook was set in a way that has never quite come loose. It had less to do with the sport itself and more to do with the moment in which it arrived, because sometimes a game walks into history at exactly the right time.

For those who were not alive at the time, it is difficult to explain what America felt like in 1980. We were only a few years removed from Vietnam, and the Cold War cast a long, steady shadow over daily life. Inflation was high. Gas lines stretched around corners. Iran had erupted in revolution, American hostages were being held, and there was a quiet, persistent sense that the country had misplaced something important and was not entirely sure where to look for it.

Then came the Winter Olympics in Lake Placid, like a bright light in a very gray season. Hopes initially rested on Eric and Beth Heiden in speed skating and on figure skater Linda Fratianne. Eric Heiden delivered one of the most extraordinary Olympic performances in history, winning five gold medals in five events and setting Olympic records in each race, as if he had decided gravity simply did not apply to him that week. His dominance was breathtaking, but what ultimately captured the country’s imagination was something else entirely.

A group of American college players faced the Soviet hockey machine, a team that looked less like athletes and more like a system. It was more than a game, and everyone knew it, even if they pretended it was not. For two weeks, the country rallied around a team that had no business winning on paper but did so anyway, and in doing so reminded us that paper is not destiny. The Miracle on Ice was not just a victory. It was a pulse returning.

Last week, I watched the Netflix documentary Miracle The Boys of ’80, and it is outstanding. The players, now in their late sixties, tell the story with the kind of clarity that only comes after decades of perspective. In 1980 they were young and largely unknown. Today they are older men who understand what they were part of, and you can hear it in their voices. Memory has a way of polishing certain moments until they glow, and that one still does.

For every Olympics since then, I have tuned in hoping to feel that again, quietly wondering whether lightning ever agrees to strike twice. Sarajevo, Calgary, Lillehammer, and a dozen more came and went like chapters in a long book, each one arriving with promise and leaving with something less than myth. There were silver medals in 2002 and again in 2010, and those were fine teams filled with extraordinary talent, but by then the Olympics had changed, professional players filled the rosters, and the Cold War backdrop had faded into history.

The truth is that it will never feel the same as 1980, because 1980 was not just about hockey. It was about timing and need and a country that wanted something uncomplicated to cheer for. Some moments are less about what happened and more about when they happened. You do not have to love hockey to understand that, and I am living proof that you can dislike the sport and still carry that memory like a lucky coin in your pocket.

There is, however, one Olympics in that long list that I do not remember very well, and that has far more to do with my family than with hockey. During Salt Lake City in 2002, my wife was newly pregnant with our youngest child, and our oldest, who was seven, apparently decided he would sample multiple Winter Olympic disciplines at once when he launched himself off the main slope of a local ski area and directly into a tree, cracking his skull in the process. The small hospital we were taken to had exactly two emergency rooms, my son occupying one and my wife occupying the other after seeing his condition.

Everyone else received oxygen that day. I did not.

Everyone would fully recover, our youngest would be born perfectly healthy, and I remain convinced the extra oxygen in the building did not hurt. It may explain why my recollection of the silver medal that year is foggier than it should be. Or it may not. I was not getting any oxygen.

Today, after nearly forty six years of waiting and on the anniversary of the defeat of the Soviets, the United States beat Canada two to one in an overtime thriller to win the gold medal. It was not 1980, and it did not feel like 1980, but it was still a pretty good feeling, the kind that makes you sit a little straighter on the couch. Some echoes are softer than the original, but they still travel.

After the game, I went into the bowels of my home to find a relic of the past, because nostalgia apparently requires wardrobe choices. I am not entirely sure when I purchased the uncomfortable polyester knockoff Team USA hockey jersey, but it has been at least thirty years, and either way it predates both my children and my marriage. I once thought it dated back to 1984, though a little recent research suggests it carries an early to mid 1990s logo, which means my memory may be as unreliable as my understanding of icing. Nonetheless, it felt good to pull it over my head today. I was mildly surprised, and quietly pleased, that it still fit. Which, at this stage of life, might be the most improbable comeback of all.

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A Dream That Started With a Newspaper List

I love dreaming, though not in a sentimental way. I am drawn to ideas that begin quietly, almost casually, and then refuse to disappear. The kind that linger in the background long after the initial spark, returning at inconvenient moments and asking to be taken seriously. Those are usually the ideas worth following.

It is good and healthy to dream of what can be. When used properly, it can drive us toward a better life and a better world.

I love the United Kingdom—London in particular, Scotland without hesitation, and Wales in a quieter way. Each region carries its own language, rhythm, and sense of continuity. Even when you do not fully understand the language—literally or culturally—you sense that something deeper is being said. That feeling has stayed with me.

When I first began traveling to London, my attention was fixed on the familiar landmarks. I was drawn to the area that includes Buckingham Palace, St. James’s Park, Parliament, Big Ben, and Westminster Abbey. Much of it unfolds near the Thames, though not every landmark sits directly along the river. The space feels unmistakably British—formal, ceremonial, layered with continuity. Even the London Eye, whether admired or merely tolerated, has secured its place in the broader skyline. Walking through that part of the city, it is difficult not to feel like you are moving through the official version of Britain, the one presented in guidebooks and history texts.

But the real London lies to the east of these landmarks, toward a different expression of authority. In London’s financial district, the skyline feels less ceremonial and more negotiated. The Gherkin. The Walkie Talkie. The Cheese Grater. The Shard rising with sharp ambition. And nearby, the centuries-old Tower of London, unchanged and unimpressed. Glass and steel operate within sight of medieval stone. The range of styles is not accidental. It reflects the demolitions that reshaped the city—from the Great Fire to the bombing campaigns of the Second World War. Destruction created space for reinvention. Nothing matches, yet everything coexists. That coexistence reveals something essential about institutions: they evolve, but they rarely disappear entirely.

I have always loved teaching for similar reasons. I value the moment when two ideas that seem unrelated begin to connect. When history feels less distant. When law feels less theoretical. Even after stepping away from formal teaching, that instinct—to connect disciplines and follow questions beyond their surface—has not left.

This past weekend, all these interests intersected while I was reading an article in The Times listing the five best pubs in London. It was a simple list, the kind meant to spark mild debate. Sadly, none of my favorite pubs made the list. Still, I found myself reading it twice. My first thought was practical: I should visit these places and see what makes them distinct. My second thought followed naturally: it would be better to experience them with others.

What began as travel curiosity shifted into something more serious because London makes that shift almost inevitable. You can walk from modern trading floors to medieval walls in minutes. Between those two worlds sit pubs that have operated for centuries. They have hosted legal debates, commercial negotiations, political organizing, and literary exchange. In the eighteenth century, writers and thinkers gathered in taverns to test ideas before they appeared in print. Reform movements were shaped in conversation long before they were formalized in law. Licensing structures themselves evolved in response to the civic role these establishments played.

The pub has long functioned as an informal institution—part marketplace of ideas, part community forum, part literary workshop. It reflects how people deliberate in practice, not just how they are governed in theory. If Parliament represents formal authority, the pub has often represented conversational authority, and the two have existed in tension and in dialogue.

The more I thought about that newspaper list, the more it stopped being about five destinations and started becoming a larger question. What role do informal institutions play in shaping formal ones? How often do we overlook the spaces where culture is actually formed because they seem ordinary? At some point, curiosity became inquiry.

I began researching readings and mapping neighborhoods. I designed a course poster using a photograph I took last December, and seeing the image framed with a title made the idea feel more concrete. I have attached the image below. It moved from a passing interest to something that could, with discipline and intention, take shape.

I do not know whether this will ever become a formal course or even a friends’ vacation. It may remain research, travel, and writing. But it is a rabbit hole I am willingly descending.

We often assume dreams must become programs, credentials, or measurable outcomes to matter. Yet sometimes the value lies in following a question far enough to see what it reveals. Sometimes the work is simply in listening more carefully—to cities, to institutions, to the conversations that shaped them.

So I will ask you something practical. What is the quiet idea you have been circling? What article, book, or conversation has lingered longer than expected? What would happen if you gave it structure and followed it further than convenience allows? If this idea were ever to become something more defined, would you commit to a month of study—walking those streets, sitting in those rooms, asking those questions, and listening for meaning beneath the surface?

It began with a newspaper list, and it continues because I am still listening.

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The Stories That Remain

I know I’m dating myself with this story, but still stories matter. Lately, I worry we are losing our ability to connect through them.

When I was in high school, Chicago released a song that became a staple at every dance. The lights would dim, and somewhere in the opening line—I guess I thought you’d be here forever—the gym suddenly felt much larger and much quieter. Teenagers stood shoulder to shoulder, unsure where to put their hands, hoping the song would end before anyone noticed they weren’t moving at all. Standing a little closer than usual felt like progress.

“You don’t know what you got until it’s gone.”

Forty years ago, those words were about a breakup. A boy and a girl. A slow goodbye.

Age changes lyrics. It sharpens them.

Both of my parents died when I was relatively young. Now I’ve reached the age where friends and colleagues are experiencing what I went through decades ago. I recognize the look. The stunned quiet. The way the world keeps moving while something essential has stopped.

When my parents died, I was devastated. They were far from perfect. But they were my parents, and I believe they did the best they could. As children, we only see one version of our parents. Mom and Dad. We don’t see the other hats they wear.

My parents held high-profile roles in our town. I understood that in theory. In practice, they were the people who packed lunches and asked about homework. My father wasn’t a public figure to me. He was the man who sat in the stands.

After they passed, people began telling me stories.

One day, a rancher came to see me. He was nearly six-foot-four, with large hands that looked like they had done real work. He had a military haircut and an imposing presence—the kind of man who fills a room without speaking. I had only ever known him as unshakable.

He stood in front of me and cried.

He told me how my dad had saved his life. Then he told me how my dad had saved his wife’s life too. He said he thanked God for Doc Harris and for what he did. Then he looked at me and said, simply, your dad was an amazing man.

I had never heard that story.

In that moment, my father became larger—and somehow closer. I learned about the quiet ways he showed up for people. The unseen hours. The choices I never knew about. And I understood that sometimes saving a life mattered more than making it to a baseball game.

When people die, all we really have left are the stories. If we don’t tell them, they disappear.

That’s why it matters to speak them out loud. To share them while we still can. Stories are how we keep people alive—not as they were in one role, but as they truly were.

You don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone.

And sometimes, you don’t really know it until someone tells you the story.

So maybe today, reach out to someone and tell a story—about a parent, a friend, a moment that mattered—because maybe, just maybe, it will remind us of our shared human bond.

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2026 arrived quickly and with a certain enthusiasm for chaos.

Some seasons arrive quickly, carrying more than we planned to unpack.

It was probably best that I didn’t subscribe to Dry January. I should have known the year was going to be a beast when, less than six hours into it, I was in a hotel and the fire alarm went off—and it wasn’t a drill. This is not how you want to meet a new calendar year. Then the gods of fate said hold my beer when four members of my immediate family experienced “medical” events, including three emergency room visits, three hospitalizations, and a surgery. January came in like it had a clipboard and a very aggressive agenda.

Along the way, I learned—or was reintroduced to—phrases like spinal stenosis, Clostridioides difficile, colitis, concussion, and tympanostomy. My medical vocabulary has expanded more in a few weeks than it had since I snuck into my dad’s home office and leafed through his copies of the Journal of the American Medical Association and Annals of Surgery. I may not have earned a degree, but I’ve at least qualified for a certificate. Possibly laminated.

And in case you hadn’t noticed—perhaps because you, too, were distracted by sirens and discharge papers—there is also a lot going on in the world.

Much of my attention has been on the Twin Cities. My family has been impacted. My friends have been impacted. This hits close to home. I watch and wonder how we got here. Early in my professional life, I spent time both prosecuting and defending criminal cases, which means I have a reasonably high tolerance for human dysfunction. Even so, many of the things I now see and read—especially through that lens—are genuinely shocking. Not shocking in a cinematic way. Shocking in a quiet, procedural, this-is-how-it’s-written-down way.

Current events often pull me back to what I studied in college, back when you could take courses that wrestled directly with uncomfortable truths instead of politely circling them. I took more than one class focused on the Holocaust and similar atrocities. As a senior, I enrolled in Light in the Darkness: Courage and Evil in the Twentieth Century. The course focused heavily on the Holocaust. At the time—and still—I struggled with how something so terrible could happen.

We studied life in Nazi Germany. We discussed Anne Frank. We read Elie Wiesel. We also read Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad, a book I still don’t fully understand, which puts me in excellent company that includes most honest readers.

Though my memory of the course is imperfect—college being a long time ago and optimism being a powerful anesthetic—several moments stand out. Perhaps most significantly, we took a “field trip” to Minneapolis. While there, we attended a concert at Orchestra Hall, spent an evening at the Chanhassen Dinner Theatre, and visited a Holocaust museum.

But there is one experience I will never forget.

We met Holocaust survivors.

One woman had been sent to Auschwitz. She told us her story patiently and answered our questions with care. Then, in a moment that permanently fixed itself in my memory, she rolled up her sleeve and showed us the tattooed number on her arm—a mark that had been there for more than forty-five years. No build-up. No warning. Just history, sitting across from us in a folding chair.

She spoke about the days leading up to liberation. She described the moment she knew she was free. She was offered a ride to the nearest supply camp roughly a mile away. She declined. This, she said, was her freedom walk. She walked the entire distance, stopping frequently because she was so weak. She had to keep her head lower than her heart to avoid losing consciousness.

She spoke about her first bite of food—and the danger of eating too much, too quickly—because her body had essentially shut down. She knew she was close to death, close enough to feel it in a practical, unsentimental way, but she willed herself to live. She told us she kept repeating to herself: Not today. Today I am free.

Someone asked her how she felt about Germany now. Very calmly, she explained that she bore no ill will toward Germans born after World War II. They were not responsible, she said; they carried the scar, not the guilt. But Germans who were present at the time—who did nothing and said nothing—were responsible for the atrocities.

There was no theatrics. No slogans. No grand conclusions. But the emotion, the pain, and the anger hung in the air, doing what facts sometimes do when delivered by someone who earned them the hard way.

I don’t remember her name. I remember her message.

Make sure this never happens again.

Since then, I have found myself returning to her words. I wonder—perhaps naively—whether a similar regime could ever arise in my own country. I keep reaching the same conclusion: yes, it absolutely could. Not because of any single current event, but because we are human, and humans have repeatedly shown a remarkable capacity for atrocity, especially when paperwork is involved.

I also arrive at a more uncomfortable conclusion: there is no way to know how I would respond.

Would I recognize what was happening in real time? Would I speak out? Would I protect those being targeted? Or would I choose personal or family safety over principles and values? Would I convince myself that compliance was temporary, reasonable, or necessary? History suggests these decisions are rarely dramatic. They are incremental. Transactional. Rationalized. Often explained afterward with excellent grammar.

And that, more than anything, troubles me.

What unsettles me most is not that the news feels alarming—news often does—but how quickly alarming things begin to feel normal. A headline that stops you cold on Monday becomes background noise by Friday. By the following week, it’s something we summarize with a shrug and a sentence that starts with, “Well, I guess that’s just how things are now.” That is usually the point at which questions about how we would respond quietly turn into questions about what we are willing to tolerate.

What we are willing to tolerate is shaped, in no small part, by what we understand to be our rights in the first place. When those boundaries are clear, normalization has limits. When they are vague, everything becomes negotiable. Fortunately, we do not have to define those boundaries from scratch or rely solely on instinct and outrage. We have a well-worn roadmap. It is called the Constitution. It does not prevent abuse or guarantee wisdom, but it does establish a baseline—certain rights meant to exist regardless of convenience, popularity, or who happens to be in power.

At its most basic level, that baseline includes the right to move through daily life without harassment; the right not to be stopped and required to justify one’s existence; the right to be free from restraint, harm, or worse based on minor suspicion; and the right to observe authority without becoming its target. It includes the right not to be threatened, exploited, confined, or erased—and the right to speak freely, worship freely, and to have a home that remains a refuge rather than a checkpoint.

None of this is abstract. None of it lives safely in textbooks or court opinions. It unfolds in real time—often within hours: a traffic stop at dusk, a crowd forming, a knock before sunrise, a decision made quickly by someone with power and limited restraint. At that speed, there is no meaningful pause, no appeal, no rewind. Due process—the idea that power must justify itself before it harms—only protects people if it exists before force is applied, not afterward. If this feels distant or exaggerated, it is usually because it has not yet arrived at one’s own door.

These are not rights granted by government, nor privileges extended for good behavior. They exist prior to government—whether understood as gifts of God, products of nature, or the result of generations of hard-won human progress. We entrust them to the state for one narrow purpose: protection. When that order is reversed, what remains may look like order, but it is not law.

It is force, borrowing the language of authority.

I began by describing how difficult January felt for me—personally, professionally, and emotionally. But those struggles, real as they were, pale in comparison to January of 1945, when Auschwitz was liberated and survival itself depended on the refusal to give in, even when the body was failing and the future uncertain. Remembering that contrast doesn’t diminish present concerns; it sharpens them. It reminds me that perspective matters, that endurance has a history, and that resolve—then as now—often begins with a single, quiet decision: not today.

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Sleepless in Savannah

I didn’t sleep well last night. Perhaps it was the low-grade anxiety that comes from traveling during a major weather event, the kind where every departure board looks like a crime scene. Maybe it was the neck pain, still hanging around like an unwanted houseguest who keeps promising, “I’ll be gone tomorrow.” Perhaps it was the realization that three beers is now officially one beer too many when you’re not 23—or even pretending to be. Or perhaps it was the unmistakable sense that my hotel room and I had very different ideas about acceptable living conditions.

Perhaps it was something else.

Perhaps it was the conversation I overheard at the hotel bar, where three extremely drunk, mostly younger people were conducting what appeared to be a peer-reviewed symposium on the modern dating landscape and which apps deliver the strongest romantic return on investment. (Important disclosure: none of them were married, but all spoke with the calm authority of seasoned divorce attorneys who had seen things.)

I can’t control what happens in the world. I can barely control what happens before my first cup of coffee. But I can control how I respond to it. Which is why I’ve chosen not to unload my thoughts on social media—that gleaming coliseum of reasoned debate where everyone listens carefully, nobody interrupts, and no one is sharpening a digital pitchfork while waiting for their turn to speak.

There’s a reason I’ve connected with people on social media, but I can’t think of a single friend I have because they voted a certain way. That feels important.

For the most part, I don’t think my social media friends are inherently good or evil. Do they post dumb things? Absolutely, but who am I to judge? My dog has her own Instagram account—@sdgingerdoodle—and it is, without question, the most consistently joyful and least controversial thing in my feed. You should probably follow it, if only to restore your faith in the internet.

Which brings me back to the hotel bar. To be clear—and I want this on the record—I AM NOT IN THE DATING MARKET and haven’t been for many years. That may be why dating apps confuse me the way TikTok confuses my parents. Back in the prehistoric era of my youth, dating involved something radical: talking. Face-to-face. Sometimes—often—alcohol was involved, but there were no algorithms, no swipes, and no carefully curated versions of yourself that mysteriously enjoyed hiking.

You walked up to someone and said, “Hey. You’re cute. I like you. Want to go on a date?” Frequently, the answer was “No.” When that happened, I licked my wounds, questioned my entire identity, wondered if I should’ve worn the other shirt, and moved on. It was brutal. It was inefficient. And yet, somehow, humanity endured.

Eventually, through a combination of persistence, timing, and luck that bordered on divine intervention, I got the girl. We’ve been married almost 25 years now. No app required. Just conversation, shared space, and the quiet miracle of two people choosing each other again and again.

So why couldn’t I sleep?

I think it’s because we’re disconnected. I think social media, for all its conveniences, has a way of sanding down real human interaction until it’s flat, loud, and oddly lonely. I think we’re better when we talk to each other—actually talk—where autocorrect can’t rescue us and we have to look someone in the eye and live with what we say.

So here’s my modest proposal: let’s talk. Meet in the town square or the coffee shop. Pick up the phone. Check in. Be human. Care a little more than feels comfortable. In short, stop being assholes to each other.

So I end with this message – Love everyone. Even Packer or Buckeye fans.

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Cold Hard Facts

There is a strong argument for keeping certain things to yourself. This is probably one of those things. Unfortunately, I may soon be in public wearing medical equipment, which tends to raise questions and invite speculation. Rather than let the driveway control the narrative, or pretend it didn’t know exactly what it was doing, here is what happened.

Friday morning, as I was leaving my house to walk the dog, I was attacked. Not by an animal. Not by another human. By ice. In my own driveway. A place I had crossed hundreds of times safely. No warning. No sound. No dramatic buildup. The last clear thought I remember having was wondering whether the driveway might be slippery. That thought turned out to be the prologue. When I regained consciousness—flat on my back, staring at the sky, with a dog hovering over me like a very judgmental witness—I felt comfortable ruling the surface hostile.

Out of an abundance of caution, and at my wife’s direct and non-negotiable order, I went to the local hospital. On the drive there—where my wife also works—she decided to run a neurological exam. The questions were unfair and oddly personal: when were we married, where were we married, when is her birthday, and, in what felt like an advanced interrogation technique, what is the password to our financial accounts.

Because my injury did not involve a gunshot, a stroke, or a heart attack—and because I walked in under my own power—the hospital staff responded with polite professionalism mixed with the unmistakable vibe of let’s see what this turns into. This was reasonable.

After a short wait—which, in medical terms, is often measured in hours rather than minutes—I was invited to check in. Check-in involved a weigh-in, an IV “just in case,” and a full panel of vitals: blood pressure, heart rate, and oxygen levels. All of this felt slightly unfair given that I had not yet taken my medication and had recently been tackled by frozen precipitation. At one point, I believe they also asked my body to “relax,” which suggested a touching but misplaced optimism.

Then came the questions, which demonstrated that my wife—though well-intentioned—was still very much an amateur. After the battery of questions, the staff turned to her and asked whether she had noticed any personality changes. She said I was more irritable than usual. This answer was delivered efficiently, confidently, and without hesitation. It is now, presumably, part of my permanent medical record.

After a CT scan and an MRI, it was confirmed that I had indeed “bonked” the back of my head. Medical terminology has a way of minimizing the unsettling. I did not break my neck—which aligned with my own independent research—but I did sprain it. I am now in a cervical collar, which sends a clear message about fragility, gravity, and the quiet power of ice.

I have been told to take it easy and to avoid complex thinking until my brain fully heals. This feels less like short-term medical advice and more like a long-term warning.

I should end by thanking my wife, whose compassion, patience, and steady presence have carried me through this with far more grace than I deserve. She has been unfailingly supportive, calm when I could not be, and generous with both care and restraint—except, of course, for the comment about my irritability, which has been entirely forgiven.

The dog, meanwhile, remains unconvinced. She watches me closely, tilts her head from time to time, and appears to believe that my collar is essentially the same as hers. In her mind, this confirms that I am ready for a walk. Healing is fine—but the schedule still matters.

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2025 Competitive, Not Complete

My 2025 looked a lot like the Minnesota Vikings. It began, as always, with hope—an early victory that made you believe this could be the start of something. Then came the injuries, the false starts, the failures, and the quiet realization that planning and execution were still passing each other in the hallway without speaking. By late October, hope had slipped into despair. But then December arrived, and despair softened back into hope—what is known as fake spring. In the end, the record will land just above or just below .500, exactly where uncertainty likes to live.

That’s how 2025 felt for me. There were real successes—moments that mattered, progress worth acknowledging, things I’m genuinely proud of. But there were also stretches when momentum stalled, when intention didn’t always translate into follow-through, and inaction led to failure. 

So 2025 was neither disastrous nor satisfying. A very Minnesota Viking outcome—competitive but incomplete. A fair grade is probably a 5 out of 10, even with the wins, because consistency matters as much as highlights.

My hope for 2026 isn’t about grand promises or naïve optimism. It’s about clarity—and momentum. 2025 finished strong, which matters more than it sounds. It suggests that improvement wasn’t accidental, that progress is possible when effort and intention finally line up. The goal now is to carry that forward. Decide what matters. Align efforts with intentions. Invest accordingly. Losses can be endured. Wins can be celebrated. What wears you down is ambiguity—and the feeling that being better was always within reach, but never quite seized.

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Gratitude Challenge 2025 Style

In 2025, I skipped the Gratitude Challenge, mainly due to time constraints. Reflecting on a hectic year, I recognize my gratitude for family and the present moment, acknowledging their support despite challenges. As Christmas approaches, I emphasize kindness, reminding us that everyone faces unseen struggles that require patience and grace.

This was the first year since 2020 that I didn’t do the Gratitude Challenge in November. I could offer plenty of reasons, but the truth is simple: I didn’t make the time for it. That’s on me.

A couple of days ago, I read “The Right Attitude to Gratitude” by David Brooks. It prompted me to look back on 2025. It’s been a hectic year — full of unexpected turns, long stretches of stress, and more challenges than I planned for. But even with all of that, there’s a lot to be grateful for.

I’m grateful for my family. Most of what I feel about them ends up in private writing, where it belongs. But they make my life better in every possible way. They push me to be better, to stay grounded, and to remember what truly matters. I’m grateful for the ways they’ve helped me, and for the quiet ways they help others just by being themselves. Too often, I take them for granted and they become the brunt of my frustrations. I hope to reduce — if not stop — that going forward.

I’m also grateful to be living here and now. When you step back and look at the sweep of human history, you realize how fortunate we are. Things aren’t perfect, but they are better than they’ve been for most of human existence. That perspective doesn’t erase the hard parts, but it does put them in context.

As we move into the Christmas season, I keep coming back to one simple reminder: be kind. Everyone is carrying something — stress, grief, uncertainty, hope — and most of it we never see. A little patience and a little grace go a long way.

No Gratitude Challenge this November. Just a moment to acknowledge what’s good, and to carry that forward.

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2000

The pandemic feels like a lifetime ago, and yet I can tell you exactly how long it has been: 2,000 days. I know this not because of science, or history, or the passage of time, but because on March 1, 2020, I started a streak.

A walking streak.

Every single day since then—through shutdowns and reopenings, through new jobs, new routines, travel, stress, exhaustion, weather that felt like it was designed to break me—I have walked at least 10,000 steps.

Two thousand days.

I didn’t set out to do this. At the beginning, it was something to do during the pandemic. It also protected my sanity. Walking was the chance to get out of the house and leave everything else behind. Ten thousand steps a day had long been the baseline, ever since I started wearing a fitness tracker. Twenty-two thousand steps was the dream. (For reference, that’s about ten miles a day, or the equivalent of pacing nervously during a seven-hour baseball game.)

The first year was easy. I averaged nearly 22,000 steps per day. The second was manageable, still averaging nearly 20,000 steps per day. But the last three were harder. I changed careers. Time shrank. The joy of the walk, once as natural as breathing, sometimes felt like another appointment on an already crowded calendar.

Quick aside here: if you’ve never experienced the low-grade panic of watching your fitness tracker show 9,976 steps at 11:57 p.m., you haven’t lived. That’s when you find yourself walking in pajama pants around the kitchen island like a lunatic, praying the neighbors can’t see through the window.

What kept me going? Partly, the dog. (She doesn’t negotiate. She knows when it’s walk time, and if I try to skip, she looks at me like I just canceled Christmas.) Partly, the number itself. The bigger the streak grew, the harder it was to let it go. You don’t walk 1,732 consecutive days just to stop there.

And now we’re at 2,000.

I should say this: I am impressed with myself. I don’t usually say things like that, but persistence deserves a little horn-tooting. If I can string together 2,000 days of anything—walking, writing, flossing—maybe I’m not as undisciplined as I sometimes think.

Of course, streaks end. Technology fails. Bodies get sick. Life interrupts. At some point, a day will come when the step counter doesn’t make it to 10,000, and I’ll have to deal with it.

But not yet.

The next goal is December 30, 2025—Day 2,131. If you’re a baseball fan, you know why. (That’s the number Cal Ripken Jr. reached when he passed Lou Gehrig in consecutive games played. If you’re not a fan, know this: it’s persistence at a mythical scale.) After that, the big one: 2,633 days, when Ripken’s streak itself comes into view on or about February 6, 2027.

Will I make it to 2,633? I don’t know. The streak doesn’t give me the same joy it once did, and some days it feels like one more box to check. But every morning, the dog is there, stretching in anticipation, eyes pathetically pleading. And every morning, I lace up my shoes.

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Unforgettable Moments

When I was growing up, my mother drove Chevrolet station wagons. They had wood paneling on the sides, vinyl seats that could burn your legs on hot summer days, and an 8-track player. We had a limited selection of 8-track tapes stored in a faux alligator skin box. One of my favorite tapes was “I Got Lucky” by Elvis Presley. I enjoyed listening to it while we drove around town or went on road trips. Truth be told, it was one of his worst albums, but I loved it.

On June 21, 1977, Elvis performed a concert in my hometown, marking the first event held at the brand-new civic center. This was my first concert (not counting elementary school Christmas concerts). Though it was a long time ago, my memories of that evening are still vivid. The excitement in the building before the concert was palpable. When the lights dimmed and “Also sprach Zarathustra” started playing, I knew we were in for an amazing show.

When Elvis walked onto the stage, the lightbulbs began popping, accompanied by the screams of excited women. I will never forget those screams. It was evident that Elvis was larger than life. He delivered a tremendous show before walking off the stage. Less than two months later, we were all shocked by his sudden death. In the fall of 1977, we gathered around our television to watch the Elvis In Concert CBS Special, which featured the same concert.

That night in June 1977 had a profound impact on me. I fell in love with the music of Elvis Presley. My first cassette tape purchase was “Elvis: Aloha from Hawaii via Satellite.” I must have listened to that tape a thousand times, and I can still sing most of the songs from memory.

In the years since the concert, many people have commented that it wasn’t Elvis Presley’s best performance. In fact, it wasn’t. He was significantly heavier than in earlier parts of his career and forgot many lyrics, often slurring his words. When I compare the concert I attended to other performances I’ve seen, it’s clear that I didn’t witness his finest work. However, even at his worst, his performance was still remarkable.

I still have my ticket stub from that concert, tucked away. It’s a simple piece of paper, but each time I see it, I’m transported back to that night. I’m not entirely sure why I’ve held onto it all these years, but perhaps it’s because some moments in life are so impactful that we want to preserve them forever.

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Reflections on Another Year

It’s complicated. It’s Father’s Day. My father wasn’t the father I wanted him to be; however, given how things have turned out, it appears he was the father I needed.

It’s complicated. Twenty-nine years ago today, my mother called to tell me that my father had suffered another heart attack and didn’t survive. It was a Saturday, and the next day was Father’s Day. his sudden death is one of the saddest days of my life.

It’s complicated. As critical as I was of my father while growing up, on this day when we celebrate fathers, I am reminded of how challenging it is to be a parent. You are constantly trying to make the best decisions, but you often fail. I love my sons more than anything in the world. I haven’t been perfect, but I have always loved them.

It’s complicated. An elected official was assassinated yesterday, marking the seventh such incident in the last 50 years. There is a suspect and it appears he was targeting several other elected officials. Meanwhile, the president celebrated his birthday with a grand military parade, something I have never witnessed in my lifetime across the country. There were mostly peaceful protests taking place. The country is deeply divided.

It’s complicated. Birthdays should be a celebration—a time to reflect on all that is good in our lives. Over the past year, I have used social media to acknowledge birthdays. Each day, I start by checking Facebook for birthday announcements. For those who share their birthdays, I make sure to send them a heartfelt birthday message.

I also take a moment to reflect on how I know each person, why they remain friends on Facebook, and the joy we have brought to each other’s lives. My friends come from various places, with diverse interests, differing political views, and various professions. While I may have favorites among them, taking the time to think about each friend is a nice way to start my day and often reminds me of many wonderful memories.

I also remember friends who are no longer with us but are still on Facebook. I believe that if we dedicate time to remember and celebrate these connections, it enriches our lives.

It’s a bittersweet day for me—today marks my birthday, Father’s Day, and the anniversary of my dad’s passing. It’s a lot to process. So, let’s take a moment to do something special today to brighten the world around us. Reach out to the people you love; they might be facing their own complexities. You never know how your words of kindness can make a difference. Life is complicated.



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6/9/72

Some numbers stick with you. For me, they are 6/9/1972, a date, and 238, the number of deaths.

On June 9, 1972, in western South Dakota, it started to rain. My only memory of that evening is standing outside under our covered front entryway while my father smoked. As I watched him, I noticed that the raindrops were the biggest I had ever seen. When I mentioned this to my dad, he suggested we go back inside because it was bedtime.

On the evening of June 9, 1972, our family went to bed early. When we awoke the next morning, we were unaware of the tragic events that had occurred overnight. Persistent clouds over the Black Hills resulted in severe flash flooding that devastated the Rapid City area. By the morning of June 10, there were 238 fatalities, and more than 1,300 homes had been destroyed.

My father was a medical doctor in our community. That morning, my mother received a call from the hospital asking if my dad would be coming into work. She was surprised by the question because she was unaware of what had happened. The hospital explained that there had been a severe storm that caused significant damage, and his services were urgently needed.

In the days, weeks, months, and years following the flood, I began to hear more stories. I learned about a classmate and friend who lost his father and two brothers, one of whom was never found. I heard about a friend of my sister’s who survived in an air pocket inside a submerged vehicle while her brothers slowly succumbed. I listened to the accounts of the screams that echoed during the disaster. I witnessed the devastation firsthand.

Our house and family were on high ground, so we were safe from the flooding. However, some friends of ours lost everything and had to stay with us until they could find a new place to live. My preschool was destroyed. While I’m not sure, I believe my father’s office was flooded but did not sustain permanent damage.

It has been over 50 years, but I still vividly remember many events from the time of the flood. Growing up, I encountered haunting reminders of the devastation: driveways where homes once stood, streets that are now vacant and abandoned, and buildings bearing the names of those who perished. Many of these reminders are still visible today if you know where to look (see picture at top of steps from a house washed away in the flood still present). Ironically, much of this is located along a beautiful greenway and bike trail that were created in the aftermath of the destruction.

In recent years, on this anniversary, I have taken the time to read through a list of the names of those who lost their lives. I reflect on friends who were affected by the flood and how suddenly life can change. This reminds me of what Marcus Aurelius wrote over 2000 years ago: “You could leave life right now. Let that determine what you do, say, and think.” Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 2, Section 11.

This is dedicated to all who were affected by the 1972 flood but more specifically to Shirley, Steve, Sarah, Andy, Lisa, Mike, and JoAnn.

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Life Events

Throughout my professional career, I have consistently advised adults to establish an estate plan. A well-crafted estate plan helps prevent family conflicts, reduce taxes and expenses, and provides clear guidance on how assets should be distributed. I also recommend that individuals review and update their estate plans after significant life events, such as a death, birth, marriage, or divorce. After this past weekend, I am adding college graduation to that list of important events.

This past weekend, our youngest child graduated from university, and I couldn’t be prouder of him. Watching him grow and mature over the last four years has been incredibly rewarding. As I observed friends, family, and others interacting during this significant occasion, I found myself reflecting on a few key points.

First, I was struck by the importance relationships that were formed over these years. Second, I was reminded of how quickly time passes; it feels like just yesterday when we dropped him off at school. Lastly, I was reminded of the importance of higher education.

My university years were quite a while ago, but many of the relationships I formed during that time still play a significant role in my life today. Watching my son interact with his friends and their families brings a smile to my face; they are wonderful people. As the graduates transition to the next phase of their lives, I hope they continue to nurture their relationships, even as they scatter across the country.

As I write this blog post from my now-quiet empty nest, I can hardly wrap my head around how swiftly time has passed. It feels like just yesterday we were dropping him off at his freshman dorm, filled with a mix of excitement and apprehension. His brief visits home during breaks often left me wishing for just a little more time together, and our trips to his university town were far too few. Yet, here I am, in a surprising twist, sending him a checklist to gear up for moving out of his apartment and into a house of his own. How did we get here so fast?

As a former university professor, I have attended numerous graduation ceremonies. While many share similar elements, my son’s graduation truly reaffirmed the importance of higher education. In recent years, higher education has faced significant scrutiny, and in some cases, this criticism is warranted.

As a student, my university required every student to take a capstone course centered around the essential question, “How then shall we live?” This course encouraged us to explore, connect, and discuss what we had learned throughout our time at the university. My simple takeaway, both then and now, is that higher education serves at least three important functions.

First, it develops and expands our knowledge base. Second, it cultivates essential soft skills, including critical thinking, adaptability, time management, commitment, and improved communication. Lastly, and most importantly, it highlights the importance of building and engaging in a strong community.

What resonated with me was the vital role that universities play in fostering community. A good university gathers a diverse array of individuals—each with their own backgrounds, perspectives, and aspirations—and creates an environment where collaboration and growth can flourish. This sentiment was articulated by both the president of the university and the commencement speaker, who emphasized the importance of this collective journey. They encouraged us to recognize our shared responsibility in using our unique talents and experiences to contribute positively to the world.

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2024 – Time to Review

In “40 Chances: Finding Hope in a Hungry World,” Howard G. Buffett shares his personal journey of using his wealth and influence to combat global hunger and poverty. Drawing from his experiences as a farmer and philanthropist, Buffett reflects on the 40 opportunities—referred to as “chances”—that a person has in their lifetime to create a meaningful impact. Essentially, each chance represents a year or a growing season.

The title and premise of the book are particularly impactful, highlighting the limited nature of our opportunities. Regardless of whether we analyze our chances over years, months, weeks, or days, it is essential to recognize that we are afforded a finite number of opportunities in life. This understanding encourages me to make the most of every moment.

As we near the end of the year, I find myself reflecting on my year. This time signifies both closure and the promise of new beginnings. Over the couple of days, I will review my goals and aspirations for 2024. While I have celebrated some victories, there have also been moments when I fell short. When January 1st arrives, I plan to take the time not only to dream but also to set purposeful goals for 2025. Here’s to the new opportunities that lie ahead!

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Day 31 Gratitude Challenge – Bonus Day

After 30 days, the sun sets on the 2024 Gratitude Challenge. After a month of daily writing, I’ve noticed a shift in my focus and attitude. While I haven’t eliminated all negative thoughts, I have managed to reduce them. I now spend more time reflecting on what I have rather than what I lack. It reminds me of that scene from It’s a Wonderful Life when Clarence says:

“You see, George, you’ve really had a wonderful life. Don’t you see what a mistake it would be to throw it away?”

A few years ago, my wife and I invited each family member to choose a charity for a $100 donation. The only requirement was that they write two paragraphs detailing why they selected that specific charity. On Christmas Eve, as we gathered together, we presented each charity and shared the heartfelt reasons behind our choices, celebrating the impact we could make together. My family doesn’t know this yet, but I’m planning on doing that again this year. 

Mark your calendars for Tuesday, December 3, 2024—it’s National Giving Day! I’m excited to challenge all of you to support a charity that resonates with your heart. Whether big or small, every contribution makes a difference, so let’s spread the generosity far and wide!

As part of this special day, I’d love for anyone considering a Christmas gift for me to think about giving instead to a charity. Share your choice and why it matters to you on social media—let’s inspire each other and make a positive impact together!

Many worthy charities exist at local, regional, national, and international levels. Here are my top five. I might explain why in a future post.

Dakotabilities

LifeScape

Michael J Fox Foundation

Heifer International 

Promising Futures Funds

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Day 30 Gratitude Challenge

Today is the final day of November and the gratitude challenge. I would be remiss if I didn’t spend time expressing gratitude for the most important person in my life.

Every day, I start and finish with a heart full of gratitude for my wife. She is my equal, my anchor, and my greatest ally. Her intellect, empathy, compassion, and unwavering support are at the center of my life. She is an amazing mother to our sons.

She embraces my quirks, even when I drive her a bit mad. Despite the little frustrations, I know at the end of the day, our love for each other shines through. I cherish her for exactly who she is, just as she does for me.

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Day 29 – Gratitude Challenge

Yesterday turned out to be a fantastic day for several reasons. First and foremost, it was a holiday, which meant I could escape the usual hustle and bustle of work life. There’s something refreshing about having a day entirely to yourself, free from obligations and deadlines.

Moreover, I had the opportunity to spend the day with family. We engaged in activities that we enjoy. Being surrounded by loved ones while doing things that I genuinely enjoy made the day even more special.

I am so grateful for my two sons. They bring so much joy, love, and purpose to my life. Watching them grow into kind adults fills me with pride. They are thriving in their own ways, and it’s inspiring to see them find their paths in life. They teach me patience, kindness, and the value of laughter. I feel lucky to be their parent and to share in their journey. My heart is full, and I am thankful for them every day.

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Day 28 Gratitude Challenge

Today, families all across the United States come together to celebrate a cherished tradition: Thanksgiving. It is our national day of gratitude.

As I reflect on past Thanksgivings, I am reminded of those I experienced in my youth. During those times, our family would join with another unrelated family to create one large family for the day. It was such a wonderful time.

In recent years, my small family has come together at a local country club to celebrate Thanksgiving with an incredible meal. While we may not have had any leftovers to take home, the time we spent together filled with gratitude and warmth was truly what mattered most. It’s always heartening to cherish these moments as a family.

Take some time to reflect on Thanksgiving and the traditions that come with it. This holiday is about celebrating what we have. There is a danger in focusing on what we lack or envying what others possess. Instead, be grateful for what you do have.

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Day 27 Gratitude Challenge

As we approach the final days of this gratitude challenge, I want to engage in a deeper reflection on those who matter most in my life. It’s too easy to take those closest to us for granted, and sometimes we forget to express our appreciation for them.

About this time of year six years ago, our youngest child began relentlessly nagging us about getting a dog. At first, I brushed off his enthusiastic pleas, convinced that with time he would lose interest and the conversation would fade away. However, I dramatically underestimated the sheer tenacity of my child, whose determination to welcome a furry friend into our home only grew stronger with each passing day. Ultimately, we decided to get a dog, and we have been happy ever since.

Today, I am grateful for my current pet and all my beloved pets over the years. My dog’s enthusiasm when I return home is heartwarming; her joy is infectious. It’s incredibly touching to witness her genuine happiness at our reunion. Her vibrant personality and unconditional love have brought so much joy and warmth into our lives, making every moment more meaningful.

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Day 26 Gratitude Challenge

One of the remarkable aspects of our country and this moment in history is the incredible abundance of travel opportunities. Whether it’s a weekend escape to Minneapolis or Omaha, or a longer adventure to the United Kingdom or France, travel enriches our lives in countless ways.

As the Thanksgiving holiday approaches, approximately 80 million Americans are set to embark on their travels. Travel can often seem daunting, especially with the hustle and bustle of crowded airports and busy highways. Yet, once we arrive at our destination and reunite with friends and family, the journey transforms into a rewarding experience. The anticipation and joy of celebrating together far outweigh any initial inconveniences.

I feel fortunate to have traveled around the United States, the United Kingdom, and other unique places! Each adventure is a chance for me to learn and grow. Today, I’m incredibly thankful for the ability to explore new places and the technology that makes it all possible!

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Day 25 Gratitude Challenge

Yesterday, I focused on what is good about where I live (and have lived). I noticed several things, both new and old, in my city. I thought about some of my favorite aspects of my hometown.

As I was enjoying a savory crepe in one of my favorite local restaurants, I came up with the idea for today’s challenge. Although I’m not a foodie, I truly enjoy food that excites my palate. I may not always articulate the ingredients, but I appreciate flavors that tantalize my taste buds.

Get ready for fun challenge! Today, we’re diving into gratitude by celebrating your top five favorite restaurants! Whether they’re local gems, hidden treasures from afar, or beloved spots that have sadly closed their doors, it’s time to reflect on the culinary experiences that have left a lasting impression. And here’s the twist – for bonus points, share a description of each choice, revealing what made these places unforgettable on your gastronomic journey. Let the delicious reminiscing begin!

MB Haskett – I’ve been a regular at this charming little restaurant for several years now, and it has become one of my favorite spots. They offer a delightful variety of meals throughout the day, serving breakfast, lunch, and dinner, though interestingly, I have yet to experience their dinner menu. What I love most about this establishment is its cozy, inviting atmosphere. The quaint decor and intimate setting remind me of the small, local eateries I’ve encountered during my travels in London, where each visit feels personal. The restaurant prides itself on using all-natural ingredients, which truly elevates the flavors of each dish, making every bite a delicious experience.

Another aspect that sets this place apart is its unique menu; nearly every item is crafted in a way that you simply can’t find elsewhere in the area. Whether it’s a creative twist on a classic or an entirely original dish, each menu offering sparks curiosity and excitement. Lastly, the staff here is exceptional. They are always warm and welcoming, making you feel right at home from the moment you step through the door. It’s this combination of lovely ambiance, quality food, and friendly service that keeps me coming back, even if I’ve yet to try dinner.

Santini is a delightful hidden gem nestled just a short stroll from Victoria Station in London. I first discovered it years ago thanks to a recommendation from a hotel concierge, and it has since become a favorite. Tucked away a block from the bustling main street, the restaurant exudes a charming yet sophisticated ambiance that invites you to unwind.

The culinary offerings are exceptional, with a diverse menu that never fails to impress. Each dish is expertly prepared, showcasing fresh ingredients and creative flavors that keep us coming back for more. Complementing the food is an impressive wine selection, perfectly curated to enhance every meal. The attentive service consistently adds to the experience, making each visit feel special.Every time we dine at Santini, we find ourselves indulging far more than we initially intended, unable to resist the temptation of dessert or an extra course. Its proximity to Buckingham Palace means you might just spot a member of the royal family enjoying a meal, adding an unparalleled touch of excitement to this already enchanting dining experience.

CoV Edina has quickly become a beloved destination for both my wife and me during our trips to the Twin Cities. Nestled next to one of our preferred hotels, its convenient location adds to its appeal. The restaurant prides itself on using fresh, natural ingredients, elevating familiar menu offerings to a higher standard that sets it apart from typical dining experiences. The atmosphere is enhanced by a charming nautical theme, creating a delightful ambiance that enriches each meal and makes every visit feel special.

The Associates, conveniently located near our home, has become our favorite dining spot. At first glance, it appears to be just a casual bar, often overlooked by passersby. Inside, the atmosphere is simple, with a dull concrete floor and unremarkable seating that lacks flair. However, what it may lack in decor, it more than makes up for with its culinary offerings. We’ve enjoyed countless meals there, and each one has been nothing short of exceptional. The menu boasts an impressive variety of choices, ranging from comforting classics to creative dishes, and they often feature a delightful special that adds excitement to our visits. No matter what we choose, we’ve never left disappointed.

Starfish Laguna – Another gem recommended by the hotel concierge, this restaurant truly surpasses all expectations. Nestled within a quaint strip mall off the bustling Pacific Coast Highway, its unpretentious storefront initially had us questioning whether the concierge was playing a prank on us. However, as soon as we stepped inside, any doubts melted away.

The interior is a vibrant tapestry of design, where black, turquoise, and gold interweave to create a striking visual experience that is both unique and thought-provoking. The fabrics drape elegantly, while the walls, floors, and ceilings are adorned with bold hues that command attention without overwhelming the senses. Wire pendant lights dangle artfully overhead, casting intricate shadows, while palm fans and smoked mirrors contribute to a sense of movement and depth within the space.

When it comes to the cuisine, the restaurant offers a delightful fusion of Asian flavors that draws inspiration from the culinary traditions of China, Thailand, Vietnam, and Indonesia. Each dish is a harmonious blend of influences, crafted to tantalize the taste buds and leave a lasting impression.

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Day 24

Traveling has always been a passion of mine. There’s something magical about exploring new places and immersing myself in diverse cultures. I find great joy in chatting with locals, and hearing their perspectives is fascinating. Often, they highlight the challenges and downsides of their surroundings, which contrasts my own experience. For me, every destination holds beauty and positivity, waiting to be cherished.

It is ironic that when I describe the places I’ve lived, I often focus on the challenges and downsides. The reality is that there are good things and bad things no matter where you live. There are many good things about where I live and where I grew up.

I grew up in the Black Hills of South Dakota, a stunningly beautiful area. The people I grew up with were truly outstanding. My current hometown also has many positive attributes. There are several beautiful parks where residents can walk and enjoy nature. We have excellent restaurants and many good people living here.

Today, take a moment to look around you. Notice the positive things happening, and list three things for which you are grateful.

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Day 23 Gratitude Challenge

Yesterday, a friend sent me several pictures of my brothers that I had never seen before. I posted one on social media and attached another to this post. I’ve written about my brothers previously, as they have impacted my life immeasurably.

Since it is the weekend, I will keep this simple. I am grateful for my brothers.

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Day 22 Gratitude Challenge

It’s Friday, and the weekend has arrived. We have journeyed through three weeks of gratitude. Today is a perfect moment to reflect. What has unfolded over the past three weeks? Have you sensed any transformations?

Today marks an exciting moment in our challenge—it’s wildcard day! This is your opportunity to reflect on and express gratitude for three things in your life. Whether it’s a particular person, a cherished memory, or anything else that brings you joy, take a moment to appreciate those unique aspects that truly make a difference. Let’s celebrate what matters most to us!

You’ll be excited to know that you’ll soon have the chance to earn bonus points by jotting down these three things and sharing them with others. Here are my three!

  • I am grateful for the chance to explore nature and its beauty in the public parks both where I live and where I visit.
  • I am grateful to live in a country that values and protects freedom: the freedom to vote, work, and travel.
  • When it comes to travel, I’m grateful for the opportunities it brings. Whether it’s a weekend getaway, a short domestic vacation, or an international excursion, I appreciate these adventures.

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Day 21 Gratitude Challenge

I often get asked about the pictures I attach to my posts. The most common question is whether I took the picture, followed by inquiries about where and when it was taken.

Most of the pictures I take are from my daily life, vacations, or sporting events. I have loved photography for many years. I was fortunate to have parents who supported this passion and never questioned the costs associated with developing photos. Similarly, when I decided to pursue photography again a few years ago, my spouse was very supportive and even gifted me a camera for Christmas.

I have four different cameras, including my mobile phone. Each camera serves a unique purpose and is used in a specific way. It’s an expensive hobby, but it brings me a great deal of joy.

Hobbies are important because they enrich our lives in various ways, contributing to our mental, emotional, and physical well-being. Here are a few key reasons:

  • Stress Relief
  • Personal Growth and Skills Development
  • Social Connections
  • Boosting Mental Health
  • Encouraging Balance

Today, take a moment to appreciate your hobbies and the people who support you in pursuing them.

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Day 20 Gratitude Challenge

The picture at the top of this post was taken on March 1, 2020. On that day, the Augustana Vikings suffered a heartbreaking loss in the conference tournament. It also marked the beginning of my incredible streak. Since then, I have logged at least 10,000 steps for 1,725 consecutive days, which is equivalent to 4 years, 8 months, 3 weeks, and 4 days.

Maintaining this streak hasn’t always been easy, and in recent months, I’ve questioned whether it’s worth continuing. Despite facing illness and challenging weather, my commitment has never wavered. Most days, I complete about half of my steps either by walking outside with my dog or indoors on a treadmill.

Throughout this journey, I’ve lost a significant amount of weight, improved my medical lab results, and enhanced my overall health. Achieving a streak like this requires both luck and willpower. I am proud of my accomplishment and will continue this streak for as long as I can.

Good health is often taken for granted until it’s lost. While your health may not be perfect, if you can read this, you have your sight, which is a valuable gift. There is much in life that is beyond our control, yet every day we make countless choices about how we care for our bodies. Today, treat your body well by drinking more water, eating nutritious foods, taking deep breaths, and incorporating physical activity into your routine. Additionally, consider tonight as an opportunity to give yourself the gift of more sleep. Create calming bedtime routines to help relax your mind.