Tag: Memories

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.

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.

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.

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.

Day 19 Gratitude Challenge – The Picture

Four years ago, as I was completing the first gratitude challenge, I made two posts in Facebook.

One was about gratitude see below. I think these words are still applicable.

Today we are to consider the challenges we have faced in our lives. What can I find to be grateful for for in those challenges. While there are many examples, there is a present challenge that exists. How to survive during a pandemic. The present challenge requires me to view the world through a different lens and focus on what matters. I have intentionally tried to direct my energy toward things that matter. I am grateful that the pandemic has caused me to look at an approach life differently.

The other post from that day is at the top of this one. When I took that picture and made that post, I was not aware that my life was about to undergo a dramatic transformation.

I looked at that picture and immediately realized that something needed to change. My health and weight were out of control. That day, I started researching options and quietly began my transformation. Ultimately, I lost about 60 pounds but have since gained back around 15 of those. What’s interesting is that I find my current weight unacceptable, even though it is still lower than my original goal.

So, today’s challenge is to be grateful for your challenges and difficulties.

Day 4 – 2024 Gratitude Challenge

As I take a moment to write this, I’m gearing up to spend a few cherished hours in the here and now, watching my beloved Minnesota Vikings. I know how important it is to focus on the present, which means setting aside the distractions of past regrets and future uncertainties. It’s a gentle reminder that being fully present can bring joy and connection. This was the challenge for Day 3.

It is also important to spend time reflecting on the past. We often overlook the true value of a moment. Consider the memories that brighten your life—what are the ones that make you smile, laugh, or even bring a heartwarming tear to your eye? Take a journey down memory lane and share those beautiful moments with your family and friends. Remember to reach out to those who played a part in creating those memories with you. Celebrate the connections that make those memories so extraordinary!

At the top of this post is a picture that holds a special place in my heart. It is from the Black Hills, a region I haven’t called home for a while. Nevertheless, the memories I’ve created there are vivid and alive, each serving as a beautiful reminder of the adventures and moments that have shaped me.

Day 19 Beautiful Things

The purpose of this challenge is to take a moment to appreciate the beauty surrounding us. A few days ago, I shared a post about the beauty of a gift I received—a camera. I also included one of my favorite football pictures. Below is the story about one of the first pictures I took.

When I was young, my mother used to give each of her children a Christmas ornament every year. Some years, the ornaments had a similar theme. I remember a Wizard of Oz themed year and another year with a fairy tale theme, when I got a Puss-in-Boots ornament. My first ornament was a train, and I still have it.

When I was three or four, I received a football player ornament that became my favorite. Even now, it remains front and center on our tree, a reminder of Christmases past, present, and future. I took one of the first pictures with my new camera of this special ornament. Like me, it has aged. While some may not find it beautiful, it holds a special meaning for me. Sometimes, beauty is found in memories or photo albums.

Day 16 – Beautiful Things

Over the weekend, my youngest son paid us a visit. Amidst the excitement of a wedding and catching up with his buddies, he managed to squeeze in some quality time with us. We even hit the golf course for a few rounds. While he’s now a better golfer than I am, we always have a playing together. It’s great to see him thriving and it’s even better to share these moments with him.

Day 10 Beautiful Things

I was in downtown Minneapolis about a week ago for a meeting. While waiting, I looked out the window and saw Shindig. Although the name is still on the building, it has been closed for a couple of years, a victim of the pandemic and economic challenges. Most people only see it as an abandoned, closed event center.

It’s a charming venue with a small chapel-like room connected to a slightly larger event space with a bar. It would be perfect for a group of 50-100 people.

Even though most people pass by this place without giving it much attention, I always smile when I see it. It holds a special place in my heart because it’s where my oldest child got married just before the pandemic. It was a beautiful day with beautiful people, and I have so many wonderful memories from that day and that place.

As Many With as Without


“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of light, it was the season of darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair.” – Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities

 

Time is an interesting concept. Today is a day that marks a significant moment in my life. Many years ago, on this day, I was born into this world. As I grow older, I am reminded that each birthday is a precious gift and should be celebrated.

This weekend, I’m just not feeling the birthday cheer. It’s the eighth time my birthday has landed on a Saturday, and it always sends me on a trip down memory lane.

On a beautifully sunny birthday, I was enjoying a morning round of golf with two new friends in a new town. As we strolled off the green of our 12th hole and headed towards the 13th tee, a young man in a golf cart handed me an urgent note from the pro shop. Written in striking red ink, the note read, “Paramedics called. Call your mom at home.”

This was before cell phones became prevalent. As I was at the furthest point on the course from the clubhouse, I rode back to the clubhouse with the young man. While I did not know exactly what had happened, I knew this ride would be a turning point in my life.

As I reached the clubhouse, I called my mother and received devastating news. She informed me that my father had passed away and asked me to return home immediately. It was difficult to comprehend – I had just hugged him less than 12 hours before. It felt like a surreal and heartbreaking moment. The next day was Father’s Day.

I continue to feel a deep sense of sadness about my father not being here. I often find myself wishing he could have met my wife and sons, and for them to have had the opportunity to meet him.

Today feels like a significant turning point. My father has been absent from my life for as long as he was present. In recent years, I’ve pondered how I would feel. I can confirm that little has changed as I write this.

So forgive me if I don’t want to celebrate or play golf this weekend. Maybe I will have a shot whisky or glass of wine in his honor, but there won’t be a party.