The Battle of Birch Knoll

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For Steve Murphy, a man of character, humor and honor. And for the young men of Troop 1.

To paraphrase Yogi Berra, you could fill the history books with stories that aren’t in the history books. Countless stories never make it into the official annals of history. But regardless of their lack of fame, those moments in time change lives and are forever etched into the memories of those who were there. Today’s installment is just one of those. A story of unsung heroes.

The artillery commander felt the warm summer breeze caress his face as he watched the forest trees sway before him. On a normal day, he would have welcomed the wind. But today, it was forcing him to change his plans. Instead of bombarding the enemy, he had to wait.

He hated waiting, but his artillery pieces simply weren’t accurate in windy conditions. So, he and his men waited.

But that didn’t mean his troops weren’t busy. Their primary firing position was tucked away among the trees on top of a hill – giving his team a major tactical advantage. In warfare the high ground is coveted. Elevation is everything. Especially for artillery. The particular hill on which they were perched was known by the locals as Birch Knoll.

If you could remove the trees, you’d see a wide, flat valley below. That valley housed the enemy’s campsite. And just 12 months earlier that same valley was the scene of his troop’s worst defeat.

Now he was back. And so was the enemy. It was payback time.

Three two-man teams of forward observers dressed in camouflage were strategically stationed throughout the forest. Each used hand signals to silently relay messages to base camp about the enemy’s location and strength.

Additional four-man teams were stationed midway up the hill. Once the shooting started their job would be to leave their hiding places and repel any enemy troops that made their way up the two hiking paths leading up the heavily wooded hillside.

The night before, scouts had slinked down the hill and infiltrated the enemy camp. Their mission: to locate specific targets in the camp and pace off the distance from those targets to the base of the hill. That data would allow the artillery teams to calculate and set firing solutions for the inevitable battle to come.

Fire!

From his hiding place among the shadows the lead forward observer saw eight enemy troops assembled around the camp’s main fire pit. They were preparing to clean out a massive pile of ashes left over from the previous night. He knew their habits and had been waiting all afternoon for this very moment – when a group would concentrate in the center of the camp. Now would be the perfect time to launch an attack. One projectile would do the work of many.

He turned and flashed a message up the hill, “FIRE!”

As luck would have it the wind dissipated. For a brief moment the air was still. Three signalmen flashed the “FIRE!” sign simultaneously.

The artillery commander wasted no time.

“Come right two degrees,” he barked to the main battery team. Two operators swiveled the massive 6-foot-tall apparatus. “Increase elevation four degrees.” The gunner immediately made the adjustment. The loader handed the gunner the projectile. It was loaded and checked with swift efficiency, just like they’d done countless times in practice during the past three months.

One last order from the fire commander, “Fire for effect. FIRE!”

The gunner reared back, pulling the massive industrial strength rubber tubing to its full 8 ft. length. He sighted one last time through the center of the 4-foot-wide cross bar and released the liquid-filled projectile.

The red spherical projectile gained altitude quickly and sailed silently over the trees. It would take three seconds to find its mark on the camp below.

What goes up…

The enemy troops below had just begun cleaning out the massive main fire pit. The cold ashes were easily 3 ft. deep. They hated this job. It was a hot, dirty chore that no one enjoyed. And if the ashes got on you or your sweat-dampened clothes, they took forever to clean.

Their situation was about to get worse.

They didn’t hear it coming. Precisely three seconds after launch: SPLOOSH! The Troop 1 water balloon scored a direct hit on the Troop 2 fire pit. The fat, wet balloon hit which such force all eight Scouts were immediately covered from head to toe in sticky gray ash. It took a moment for them to realize what had happened. When the initial shock passed they yelled in unison to their comrades, “Incoming!” as they scattered and ran for shelter.

The unsanctioned, unofficial, annual Boy Scout Summer Camp water balloon fight had begun!

  

Fighting water with water

The previous summer Troop 1 had fought gallantly but was overwhelmed by Troop 2, their long-time rival. Troop 2 was organized and well prepared. And that preparation had allowed them to easily route the boys of Boy Scouts of America (BSA) Troop 1.

Troop 1 didn’t like to lose. And certainly not to those guys from Troop 2. The sting from that loss was especially painful.

But on the positive side, it spurred Troop 1 to take on its own training and preparation in retaliation. All fall and winter they discussed, planned and planned some more.

Step one was to book the camp at the top of Birch Knoll at Camp Ingawanis. They’d need to own the high ground. Check.

Step two was to divide into teams and drill each team on the Scouting skills they’d need. Check.

Step three was to practice. And practice they did. Their monthly meetings were packed with semaphore, discussions about the pros and cons of specific camouflage gear, basic trigonometry, orienteering, and developing a disciplined and thorough battle plan. Check.

When spring finally arrived they moved to outdoor-skills practice, which of course included “artillery training.” Every Sunday night for eight weeks, three fire teams assembled to practice.

The “main battery” was a giant aluminum slingshot originally designed for use by dog trainers to launch rubber dummies for hunting dogs to retrieve. When legendary Scout leader Steve Murphy learned what the boys were planning for summer camp he gladly let them borrow it. The main battery required four boys to operate it. Two to swivel the giant U-shaped crossbeam, one to load balloons, and one to operate the sling.

Along with the main battery were two, three-man “mobile batteries.” The mobile batteries were also slingshots, but instead of a metal frame, two boys served as posts and stretched a 6 ft. sling between them. A third team member would load the sling and fire it. What the mobile units lacked in distance they more than made up for in versatility.

Final preparations had been one week earlier. The main battery practiced hitting a wading pool 100 yards away. They hit 24 of 25. The mobile teams worked on targets 25 yards away and reached a 90 percent success rate. They were ready. Check.

Battle!

The forward observers signaled that the main battery was dialed in.

“Fire at will!” yelled the commander, known by his friends as Gucci. All the Troop 1 boys proudly went by nicknames.

The main battery commenced launching as many water balloons as they could in rapid succession.

A steady cascade of multi-colored orbs found its mark on the Troop 2 camp. Their scouts were scattered and unorganized. Shock and awe had been achieved. But Troop 1 knew it would be short lived. Before too long Troop 2 would get its act together and attempt a counter offensive.

In preparation, Gucci signaled for the mobile units, led by Big Fish and Boz, to take positions on each of the two hiking trails.  

As expected, Troop 2 organized and began sending small groups up the steep hillside.  

The cry went up from the top of the knoll, “Prepare to repel boarders!”

Instantly, the guerilla teams, led by Poptart, formed lines parallel to the hiking trails. As the enemy teams advanced they were hit simultaneously from two sides. This maneuver forced back the majority.

But a few plucky boys made it through – only to find the mobile artillery waiting for them. One young man had the dubious distinction of coming face to face with Boz and his team.

“We’ve got a breakthrough,” he heard from down the hill. “No problem,” shouted Boz.

He simply loaded the largest balloon he had and pointed it at chest level. Two seconds later a young man who thought he was going to single-handedly overrun the Troop 1 position was hit square in the chest with great force, flipping him over backwards.

With that, the Battle of Birch Knoll came to an end.

Troop 1 had earned its revenge. Troop 2 learned never to let Troop 1 have the high ground. And both groups learned it takes days to pick up all the balloon bits left over from a water balloon war – but it was worth it.

More importantly, however, the boys of BSA Troop 1 learned the value of perseverance, planning, coordination and teamwork. And they learned that great things can happen when you take the time to learn from your failures. Lessons that have stuck with them, much like the ashes of campfires from long ago.

While this story isn’t recorded in any history books, it lives in the hearts and minds of a bunch of young men who turned a defeat into a victory. A bunch of young men who’ll never forget the Battle of Birch Knoll.

One small step...

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This March marked the 30^th anniversary of the day I was honorably discharged from the U.S. Air Force. Anyone who’s served in the armed forces will tell you there are two days they’ll never forget – the day they joined the military and the day they left the military.

And for most veterans there are at least a few other moments in between that stand out. For me, one of the moments that’s forever burned into my memory took place during basic training.

It was a blazing hot July afternoon at Lackland Air Force Base outside San Antonio, Texas. You could see the heat waves shimmering above the black asphalt drill pad on which we were marching. We were just a few days short of graduation so instead of combat boots, we were wearing our black low-quarters (military dress shoes) with our olive-drab fatigues.

The only saving grace was a stiff 20 mph wind, that helped keep us cool. But on the flip side it made it very difficult to hear our training instructor’s (TI) commands. The heat, wind and general fatigue made it tough to concentrate.

To add one more level of difficulty, Flights 026 and 027 from Air Force Basic Military Training Squadron (BMTS) 3704 were in the midst of their first two-hour session of learning how to march in squadron formation. Simply put, the two flights were combined. Instead of four columns across and a total of 50 airmen, we now had eight columns across and 100 airmen.

I was the leader of the fourth squad in Flight 027. Instead of being in my customary position at the far-right edge of the formation I was now in the middle. Something new and unsettling. And to top it off, the TI leading the drill was from the other flight, so I wasn’t accustomed to his voice and commands.

Be that as it may, we were doing OK. It was a little rough, but we were making progress. Then it happened. The TI called out “Squadron, halt!”

In sync, 100 airmen came to a stop – all except one hot and sweaty kid from Iowa – smack dab in the middle of the front row. As everyone else stopped, my left leg continued forward, sticking out like a sore olive-drab thumb. It was one small step. Just enough to stand out. “Maybe they won’t notice,” I prayed as I ever-so-carefully attempted to slide my foot back without being detected. Nice idea. It failed. Little did I know that that step, that moment would stick with me forever.

Assisting the Flight 026 TI was Flight 027 TI, Sgt. Lane. Now let me tell you about Sgt. Lane. He joined our flight just three days earlier and had a reputation for being the toughest TI at Lackland. Whether that was true or not didn't matter. The fact was he had us totally psyched out. We were 50 guys from all walks of life from all over the country. We had nothing in common save one thing – an absolute fear of Sgt. Lane. We were on edge.

The good sergeant was stationed about 40 yards in front of us and off to the right. I could just barely see him out of the corner of my eye. But I didn’t need to see him. I heard his voice loud and clear above the wind. A question and a challenge all rolled neatly into one. My answer would be my salvation or my undoing. The choice was mine.

He bellowed, “Airman, did you move?!”

I’ve searched my mind for more than 30 years and I still don’t understand why I did what I did next. For one brief second I channeled my inner 12 year old and responded with a ludicrous, “No, sir!” A flat-out lie. And the wrong choice.

As the words lept from my mouth I imagined reaching desperately with both hands to grab 'em and shove 'em back down my throat. But it was too late. The fuse had been lit.

Air Force Military Training Instructors have a tradition of wearing metal taps on their shoes. The taps serve two purposes. 1) To reduce wear and tear on boot and shoe heels; and 2) Trainees learn to fear the sound of the taps coming their direction. Simple, straightforward, effective mental warfare.

Sgt. Lane stood a little over 6 ft. tall. He had dark hair and a close-cropped mustache to match. A smile never crossed his face. Ever.

Upon hearing my ridiculous response, he narrowed his gaze and took off toward me like a human missile. The normal rhythmic click, click, click of his shoes striking the hot tarmac was replaced with a machine-gun like sound. He was moving too fast for me to hear the individual clicks. He was in attack mode. The shark had spotted its prey and was on a direct-intercept course at full-speed.

He didn’t slow down until he was two paces away. He came to an abrupt stop, squared his shoulders and inched forward. The brim of his blue, TI “Smokey Bear” hat slid under the brim of my hat until it was stopped by my forehead. We stood quite literally toe-to-toe and eye to eye. I could see the sweat trickle down his nose. A vein was pounding above his eyebrow. I smelled the acrid stench of coffee and cigarettes on his breath. My heart was pounding.

After what seemed an eternity, the sergeant growled just loud enough for me to hear: “Airman, I’ll give you one more chance. Did you move?”

“Yes, sir.” I responded, looking into his dark shark-like eyes.

“Good,” he almost spat. “Airman, don’t ever f#$%ing lie to me again!” 

With that, he took one step back, executed a perfect about face and marched off into the sun.

I was a wreck the rest of the day. But I learned an important lesson. Unlike Neil Armstrong, my “one small step” didn’t define the hopes, dreams and imagination of a generation. No, indeed.

But it did have a lasting impact. My “one small step” taught me a great deal about character. I learned that it’s easy to talk about doing the right thing. But it’s very different to stand up and do the right thing when you’re tired, or hungry, or hot, or completely and totally stressed out. Character means making the conscious choice to do the right thing every time, no matter who’s watching, or who's not.

That small step didn’t change the world, but it certainly changed me.  

Thank you, Sgt. Lane, wherever you are.

Sgt. Lane and Flight 027. I'm the one in the cool glasses on his left.

The Fastball That Changed My Life

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The pitcher leaned forward, his spikes digging into the dark brown soil of the pitcher’s mound. His gloved left hand rested on his knee. His right arm, his throwing arm, was partially hidden behind his back. Sweat rolled down his nose as he leaned forward, waiting for the next batter to take his position beside home plate.

It was the top of the fifth inning, two outs, nobody on base. The first two batters had struck out – just like all their teammates in the previous four innings. They couldn’t touch his fastball. No way, no how. He felt good. Loose. His mind in total focus.

The third, and likely final batter of the inning, took his cue and nervously began to make his way from the on-deck circle to home plate. There was no breeze to speak of. The clock struck 1 p.m. The hottest part of that July Iowa day was upon him and his team. His coach shouted encouragement as he marched to almost certain failure. It appeared that no one could get a piece of this guy.

The pitcher waited calmly, his fingers automatically finding the perfect resting place on the red laces of the pristine white game ball. The ball was pristine because it had come into the rotation just two batters earlier, and despite a couple hopeful swings, no one had even come close to connecting bat to ball. So far, its gleaming white leather cover was unmolested. But that would soon change.  

The No. 3 batter stepped into the box. The catcher assumed his position behind the plate. He didn’t waste any time. He knew his pitcher was in a groove and he didn’t want to upset his timing. The catcher flashed his index finger straight down. He wanted the fastball. The same pitch he’d been calling for all day. And why? Because it was working. For five straight innings it was three up and three down. His pitcher may just have been an eighth grader, but he threw the kind of heat that batters just couldn’t touch.

I was a fill-in umpire that day. I was a junior at Osage Community High School. I loved baseball and I looked forward to the occasional opportunity to work behind the plate.

From my vantage point, perched behind the catcher’s right shoulder, the game was a snoozer. Three up, three down. Three up, three down. If you liked pitching duels, this was the game for you. If you liked to see action on the field, you were bored stiff.

To make matters worse it was hot – real hot. The kind of hot that makes every Iowan wonder why they choose to live here. On top of that, I was strapped into a black, inflatable umpire’s chest protector and regulation Rawlings umpire’s mask. The gear was necessary, but stifling, even on a cool day – which today wasn’t.

I was miserable. I’d sweated through my shirt by the second inning. I wondered if I really needed to wear all this stuff. Would it be worth trading comfort for safety? It turned out my answer was just 70 ft. away.

Batter No. 3 was in the box. The pitcher took his signal, nodded to the catcher to confirm he agreed, wound up and zoom! Strike one. I don’t think the batter even saw the ball go past.

The catcher nonchalantly tossed the ball to the mound. The process was repeated. Signal, nod, windup and zoom! Strike 2.

Except for the fact this was a great pitching exhibition, it was boring game. Two guys were playing catch and all the rest of us could do was stand there and watch. I think the boredom and sense of deja vu that came with each pitch even lulled the catcher to sleep.

The pitcher received the ball and repeated his well-worn process. Signal, nod, windup, zoom!

For the first time all day, the ball didn’t find its mark in the strike zone. Its trajectory was too high. The catcher had to reach up above his shoulders to intercept the errant fastball – effectively blocking my view. But instead of another expert catch, the catcher forgot he had an umpire behind him and did the unthinkable. He dropped his arm.

In a split second I went from a catcher’s mitt obstructing my view to having a fastball smash me smack-dab square in the mask!

The force of the impact knocked me backward and into a spin. I was a real-life Charlie Brown. My mask, cap and glasses all flew off, each going a different direction. When I stopped spinning I dropped to one knee and took stock of the situation. No broken nose, no cuts, no nothing! I was alright! In the span of one baseball pitch I’d gained a new-found respect for protective gear.

Now I had to go back to managing the game. The moment of truth. To know me is to know I had a serious temper problem when I was a teenager. Anything could set me off. And when I went, I went big. I’m still embarrassed about some of the fits I threw more than 30 years ago.

Until that moment I was just hot, sweaty and irritable. Now I’d been assaulted by the stupidity of an eighth grader. On top of that, I heard the crowd laughing. They thought it was funny! The stage was set for an epic meltdown. But something strange happened. A calm came over me. A calm like I’d never felt before.

Divine intervention? Perhaps.

The catcher was standing at the plate with his back to me, clearly trying to avoid eye contact. I took a deep breath, looked around and found my glasses, hat and mask. And then I surprised myself. I called time out and walked a few steps toward the backstop, just close enough so the crowd could hear me. I signaled for the catcher and his coach to join me.

The coach trotted right out. The catcher walked over, slowly, head down. He knew he’d done wrong. The coach asked if I was alright. I assured him I was OK. Then I looked the catcher in the eye and said, “Coach, I need you to explain to your catcher that his No. 1 job in this game is to protect his umpire. If he does that again he’s out of the game.”

The coach smiled and said, “No problem, Ump.” I left him to it and walked to home plate. As I bent down to brush the plate clean I heard the coach verbally chewing the kid up one side and down the other.

Justice had been served – and I hadn’t lost my temper. Not even a little bit.

I was smiling under the facemask a moment later as I signaled to the pitcher and yelled, “Play ball.”

I wasn’t smiling because the catcher got chewed out. I was smiling because for the first time in my young life, I responded to adversity with calm and maturity. It was a great feeling.

I’d like to report that I never lost my temper again. I can’t. But I can say I’ve been a sports official of some sort all my life and I’ve never lost my temper in a game – no matter how contentious the situation.

Each morning when you wake up you never know what fate has in store. All you know is things are going to happen. Those things are usually small. But sometimes they’re big. And sometimes they change your life. That fastball on that summer day was a milestone for me. It marked the day I started to take charge of who I was and who I wanted to be.

Thank God, and thank you, Rawlings!

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The Runaway Tire -- A Story From O'Connor's Standard Service

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Each year as I stand outside and greet the first snow of the season, I’m reminded of a winter night long ago and a lesson in humility. A lesson taught by a tire with a mind of its own.

The theme from A Charlie Brown Christmas TV special was playing in my head as I slid the flat tire off the Chevy Malibu’s passenger-side rear axle. I reached down and scooped up the five lug nuts before the snow covered them and they became lost on the drive of O’Connor’s Standard Service, 402 W. Main St., Osage, Iowa.

The snow was beautiful – big, fluffy flakes, just like on TV – hence the Peanuts’ rendition of “Christmas Time is Here” in my head. The gigantic flakes were invisible in the night sky until they fell far enough to be illuminated by the lights above the gas pumps. As you drove down Main Street, our service station stood out like a light house against the dark streets that surrounded it.

It was a December Friday night and I was working alone. All the Osage Green Devil basketball teams were playing away games, so the traffic on Main Street was lighter than normal. It was a quintessential quiet night in small-town Iowa.

I loved working on nights like this. All was quiet. All was peaceful.

The Malibu was parked on the edge of the drive, just outside the office door. I carried the flat tire into the back room. I loved fixing tires. It’s dirty, hard work, but I always imagined myself like a surgeon – seeking out the problem and performing an operation to restore the patient to health.

If I was successful the patient would be as good as new and the customer would be back on the road. I’d be the hero. If it couldn’t be fixed, then the nominal cost of repair would be replaced by the expense of a new tire and I’d be the surgeon whose patient had died on the table. A new steel-belted radial wasn’t cheap, so the pressure was on to fix the old tire.

I used the pneumatic tire machine to remove the tire from the rim. I then located and extracted the offending nail, patched the hole, remounted the tire and balanced it. The whole process took less than 15 minutes. Another success.

As I rolled the re-inflated tire from the backroom and through office to the front door, I noticed the snow was falling harder. It was more than an inch deep so the tire left a clear track in the fresh snow as I reached the axle.

I heard the telephone ring just as I was crouching down to lift the tire and slide it onto the axle’s lug bolts. I left the tire standing upright and hustled into the office. I leaned over the high desk and grabbed the receiver. It was a customer asking if his car was ready to be picked up after servicing. My back was to the drive. As we talked I heard multiple cars honking on Main Street.

I completed my business with the customer and hung up the phone. As I returned to the Malibu I wondered what all the honking had been about. As I came around to the passenger side I looked down to find my newly fixed and inflated tire was gone!

“Gone?” I thought. “How the heck could it be gone?”

It didn’t take a bloodhound to sniff it out. Because of the fresh snow all I had to do was put my head down and follow the pristine tire track in the snow. I mentally removed my sterile surgeon’s scrub cap and replaced it with my Sherlock Holmes deerstalker. We had a mystery to solve. The game was afoot!

The track led due-west and down a slight slope onto 4^th Street – a distance of more than 30 feet. Upon reaching the street, the tire took a sharp right and headed north toward Main Street. Twenty feet later I reached the stop sign. No sign of the tire. The track continued north.

At that point I snapped out of it and simply looked up and across Main Street. Now keep in mind, Osage’s Main Street is four lanes wide – more than 100 feet.

And there it was. The tire in question had miraculously rolled across four lanes of traffic, finally coming to rest in the middle of the street at the corner of 4^th and Main.

Now I knew what the car horns had been about. Happily, no one had been injured, and more importantly, I didn’t have to explain to my dad how I’d single-handedly caused a traffic accident without even being present.

In the end, I retrieved the tire and securely re-attached it to the Malibu. As I tightened the final lug bolt it became clear to me that just like in the hospital, the doctor’s job isn’t finished until the patient is safely out the door. It was a serious lesson. But I also had to laugh. And I still do. Every year.

A lesson in humility. Delivered by a tire. In the snow. Only in Iowa.

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Main Street, Osage, Iowa

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Foods That Make Me Ask, 'Why?'

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To know me is to know that I love to eat. One of the things I most enjoy is getting to know people and their culture through food. I’ll try most anything. You name it, I’ve probably tried it – and more importantly – I can usually point you in the direction of a restaurant that specializes in it – whatever “it” is.

My kids like to say that if I were an animal I’d be a catfish. Why? Because a catfish eats anything that comes along. While I have to confess they’re mostly right, they’re not completely correct.

There are still a few things out there that I refuse to eat. Why, because I’ve come to the conclusion that some things just don’t make sense. You can explain it to me all day long, but I simply won’t get it. I’m slow that way.

Below is my list of the top 10 foods and beverages that make me wonder, “Why would I waste my time?”

10. Angel food cake

Cake should be sweet and dense and chock-full of wonderfulness. Angel food cake, in my opinion, is none of those. In fact, it’s just the opposite. You might as well eat Styrofoam peanuts. And don’t start in on all the effort it took to make it. It’s not about the effort, it’s about the final product. If it were about effort they’d give out Olympic medals for last place. 

9. Grits

Spend any quality time with a Southerner and he’ll extol the virtues of his mama’s grits. Grits, for Yankees who’ve never been so abused, are the food equivalent of eating sand. The name says it all. Now, my friend Bubba will give you at least six reasons why his mama’s grits were outstanding. Most of them are the things mama put on top of the grits – cheese, eggs, bacon, you name it. The grits are nothing more than a vehicle to carry the good stuff to your mouth. Ask Bubba if he likes plain grits. He’ll state emphatically “No! Nobody eats plain grits.” My point exactly.

8. Lefse

See No. 9. Lefse is to my Norwegian friends as grits are to my Southern friends. Lefse is a flavorless, no-frills, potato flatbread that by itself is just no fun.

7. Meringue

Here’s another one from the “I want applause for my effort” file. Sure it’s pretty, but it tastes like sugared spackling compound. Spend half the time and make an apple pie – you’ll be loved forever.

6. Boiled peanuts

Any guy who likes beer will tell you peanuts are a gift from God. Whoever decided to boil peanuts in the shell was clearly unstable. What’s even stranger is that people line up for blocks to buy the mooshie things by the bag full. It’s like eating soggy toast. What once was good is now just gross.

5. Fat-free ice cream

Ice cream is supposed to be a treat. A decadent few moments of blissful escape into creamy splendor. You’re raining on the parade when you try to make ice cream healthy. Go find a little old lady to help cross the street. Leave my ice cream alone.

4. Salad

I laugh when I hear people talk about the “wonderful” salad they had for lunch. Let’s be clear, salad isn’t food – it’s maintenance. While you can do things to dress it up, it’s still not much fun to eat. It’s a necessary evil. A preamble. Not the reason you’re there. If you’re excited about a salad you need to get out more often.

3. Coffee

Now before you go ballistic, hear me out. Coffee smells great. But there’s something really important that gets lost between smelling it and drinking it – flavor. In comparison, hot chocolate wraps its arms around you in a warm, loving embrace. Coffee, on the other hand, slaps you around and says, “Tough love is good!” From a taste standpoint you might as well boil some tree bark – it’d taste just as good. Coffee is just nasty. I’ll get my caffeine from a pop can.

2. Gray food

This one’s a little broad, but stick with me. There’s just not much less appetizing than gray food (apologies to all my Norwegian friends). Gray is gross. You never hear anyone on the Food Network tell you to “gray that in the pan.” Brown is better. Swedish meatballs and stroganoff don’t have to look like they’re covered in gray, gelatinous snot. So to all my friends up North, ask Santa to put some Kitchen Bouquet in your stocking this year. Your dinner guests will love you for it.

1. Light beer

Let’s just get it out on the table once and for all. The United States leads the world in consumption of light (low-calorie) beer. Something to be proud of? I think not! Most other countries don’t even sell the stuff! With all the fantastic beers out there, why would you waste your time drinking beer-flavored water? I’m at a loss. Life is too short to drink bad beer. Amen.

So, those are my thoughts on foods that make me ask, “Why?” What’s on your list? Please respond so we can add to the list.

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How I Met Your Mother

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Every family has its origin stories. When my kids ask about how our family got started, this is the story I tell.

I arrived at the University of Northern Iowa in August 1988 via a circuitous route. My college career had been interrupted by four years of military service overseas. Now I was stuck in a kind of purgatory.

In my view, college students were a “waste of groceries,” and now I was one of them. And to top that, at the ripe old age of 24 I was labeled a non-traditional student. I was a military veteran who’d been stationed in Germany and Greece and now I was surrounded by a bunch of civilian kids whose most pressing problem was figuring out where they were going to find the cheapest beer.

I was squarely unhappy. I was stranded in a place I didn’t want to be, surrounded by a bunch of people I didn’t want to be around. So I said to myself, “Self, you need to get in and out of here as quickly as possible. You’ve got two years ahead of you. Put your head down and move forward. No booze, no women and no extra-curricular activities.” I was on track to live a monk’s life of focus and purpose.

Yeah. Right.

I forgot that I’d spent the previous two years on an island in the Aegean Sea. Let’s just say that items one and two in my credo got tossed out the window almost immediately.

That left extra-curricular activities.

After I gave my first speech in speech class, the professor asked if I was aware UNI had a competitive speech team. He was one of the team coaches and was looking to fill out his roster. I told him I’d done that in high school, and while the offer was tempting, I was on a straight-line course to get in and out of UNI as quickly as humanly possible.

From then on my professor was like a dog with a bone. He worked on me for the next two weeks. Finally after class one day he said, “You know, you could go to nationals right now with no training.” Bingo. He’d found my soft spot. Two years in a row in high school I just missed qualifying for the All-State speech competition. He’d figured out the code to getting me motivated: I had unfinished business. I joined the speech team just in time to go to the first tournament of the year.

My professor, now coach, told me I’d be doing the public-address events: informative, persuasive, impromptu and extemporaneous speaking. He was the public-address coach so I’d work primarily with him. The other coach, who oversaw the after-dinner speaking and oral-interpretation events (the dramatic and funny stuff), would listen to my speeches from time to time to offer her advice, he explained. I was told to go introduce myself.

So I did. Within seconds of entering her office my competitive nature kicked in. I didn’t like her. She was a three-time national finalist when she competed on the team. She’d gone straight from undergrad into her graduate program and one year later was now a full-fledged instructor. “Good for you,” I thought sarcastically. I found her annoyingly full of herself. After four years in the military, I had no time for pomposity.

Sometime during the conversation it came up that I was Catholic. Then she asked me if I had access to a VCR so I could watch tapes of other collegiate speakers in action. I told her I owned a VCR. “Oh,” she said. “So you’re Catholic and you own a VCR. You want to get married?” An irony I wouldn’t understand for many months to come.

The words that came out of my mouth were “No, thank you.” The words in my head were, “No, thank you, you self-centered loudmouth!” Her name was Penny Geurink.

So it began. I joined the team and for the next eight months every other Thursday, two coaches and 13 students would cram into a university van and drive into the night to compete. We’d spend all day Friday and most of Saturday competing. Then we’d jam back into the van and head back to Cedar Falls – usually arriving in the early hours Sunday morning. I got to know my teammates and coaches better than I ever planned or wanted.

In late February, after six months of travel, I came to the realization that Penny really did know what she was talking about. And over time I discovered her irritating bravado was simply a defense mechanism. She wasn’t nearly as self-assured as she proclaimed to be. She was tender-hearted and vulnerable and didn’t like to admit it. Over time, we both came to the realization we had much more in common than we originally thought. 

We started dating on the down-low, because even though I was a year older than her, we knew it could be a problem for her if people knew she was in a relationship with one of the students on the team.

In April, the season was coming to an end. The team was in East Orange, New Jersey, for the National Forensic Association national tournament, the third and final national tournament of the season. This was the big one -- the largest of the three national tournaments. Hundreds of the best collegiate speakers in the United States were there to see who was the best of the best.

We’d flown in on Wednesday and had competed all day Thursday and Friday. Just before we left the campus of Upsala College Friday night, I learned I’d made the semi-finals of informative and persuasive speaking. I’d compete the next morning for a chance at the national finals. My stress level was high.

Penny and I got into a huge fight after dinner. While the subject of the brouhaha is long forgotten, I’ll never forget what happened next.

We went for a walk in the hotel parking lot and made up. As I was escorting her back to her room something inside my brain snapped. I felt my pulse quicken. All I could hear in my ears was a whooshing sound. I felt like I was drowning. Panic was taking over. Some would later say I’d lost my mind. I suddenly felt like the world would come to a cataclysmic end if I didn’t voice my desperate query. I felt like a man holding onto the cliff edge with his finger tips.  

She opened the hotel-room door. Her roommates were asleep so I ushered her into the bathroom. As she took a seat on the countertop I mustered my courage and blurted, “Listen, I don’t want an answer right now, but I need to ask this. Penny, will you marry me?”

With that I gave her a quick kiss goodnight, asked her to wait to give me an answer until the next afternoon and hustled out the door, afraid of what I might hear if I lingered.

The next day was a blur of activity. I was off to compete while Penny was busy judging. It was an extremely windy April day in New Jersey. The announcements came out at about 3 p.m.

Our head coach had a list of who was moving on to the final round of their respective events. We gathered on the sidewalk. He had to yell to be heard above the wind. Two from our team made the finals. I was shocked to learn I was one of them.

There were hugs and high-fives all around. Penny hugged me and told me congratulations. Time seemed to stand still. The sun seemed to shine a little brighter. Every nerve in my body seemed to tingle. Yet again, all I could hear was a whooshing sound in my ears.

The wind picked up as I turned to walk to the building where finals would take place. Behind me, Penny said, “The answer is yes!” She thought I heard her.

I didn’t. It wasn’t until the awards ceremony a few hours later that she asked why I wasn’t more excited. Only then did I learn that my proposal had been accepted. I was getting married! Time stopped again as she hugged me on the floor of the college auditorium.

That moment marked the end of a crazy season of competition – but more importantly it signaled the beginning of a whole new journey.

Yes, I proposed in a bathroom at the Red Roof Inn in Whippany, New Jersey. But more importantly, something really special came from travelling down a road I didn’t want to take. And 27 years later, Penny and I are still enjoying the journey.

It’s been a great trip. And I thank God for setting up the detour that started it all.

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