March 2025 Recap!

‘March’ is no one's favorite word…has no comments yet, and is not a valid Scrabble word.

—from my new favorite website, Wordnik!

The first quarter of 2025 is in our rear-view, dear reader. True to form, our upper midwest March oscillated between blizzards and sunny 60-degree days. While one can never be too sure how the weather will change, I took a chance and drove up to Fargo the first weekend of the month, to celebrate the birthdays of my Mom and brother-in-law, Adam.

Mom and me early 1980. Seated left to right, Mom’s Grandpa Ed and Grandma Edna McGough, and her Grandpa Arthur Lemke (whose wife Sadie passed away mere hours before my birth on 1/7).

Dad and buddy Liberty Rose Sauvageau (aka Libbens)

As I’ve been researching and writing about family history lately, Mom shared several pictures and files that she’s collected over the years. Of particular note was a series of articles from the Seattle Star (dated April through September, 1945), detailing the shocking sexual assault and murder of my Grandma Dorothy’s 5-year-old cousin Irma Irene McGough.

from the April 27, 1945 Seattle Star. Grandma’s Uncle James McGough at right

Grandma’s cousin Irma Irene McGough, with her mother, Beulah May Simmons

In going through some old pictures, we also came across an article, which very well may be the genesis of my lifelong desire to write. From the Winter 1983 edition of North Dakota Bowhunters Association quarterly publication is a several-thousand word essay headlined “Manitoba Black, Our Way” — penned by my dad. An excerpt:

“With a single movement, Scott [Lang, Dad’s friend] drew and released a 2117 Gamegetter tipped with a four-bladed Satellite. The [bear] lurched with all the strength she could command, ran a short 60 yards and died peacefully in flight…We were awestruck at the beauty of this fallen animal: it happened so quickly and now it was over. We carefully dressed her with the reverence fitting a forest queen…”

Dad with his “Manitoba Black”

As a boy of 6 or 7, I remember feeling spellbound by this article. My parents encouraged reading from a young age: Mom would regularly take Lacey and me to storytime at the Lisbon Public Library, and Dad would read to us before bed. But seeing my father’s name in a print byline led to the youthful realization of the accessibility, and the potential reach of writing. I was happy to see that Mom and Dad had saved this article, tucked away in a musty photo bin in their garage.

Of course, one of the nicer niceties of living a few hours’ drive to the F-M Valley is getting to hang with my nephew Fischer and niece Selah. A few months ago, as Fischer and I were bonding about baseball cards, I gifted him one of my favorites: a 1988 Topps Tom Lawless card (which, great name, btw). It was a favorite because the 8-year-old me had cut out Tom’s face and replaced it with my own 4th grade school pic.

Well, as Fischer and I were looking through his cards, he handed one to me:

Obviously my heart melted. He told me to keep it, and I almost did, but thinking better of it, asked him to hang onto the card to give to his nephew one day.

Just as I was saying my goodbyes, Selah (age 3.5) came out wearing a beautiful sequined gown, and the morning sunlight streaming into the living room was too good to pass up:

Leah, Churro, and I flew to Arizona for a few days, though our trip was shortened somewhat due to an 8” snow dump in the Twin Cities. We got to see Leah’s Dad and Stepmom’s winter place in Gilbert, hiked a bit, ran (20 miles for her, 15 for me) in the area’s first rainstorm in six months, and spent a half day at the Musical Instrument Museum in Scottsdale. It felt great to get a little sunshine for a few days there.

Leah and I on a hike in Scottsdale (photo by Mike Eggers)

Back at work, I got to engineer the live Before Bach’s Birthday Bash broadcast on YourClassical MPR. You can hear the broadcast in its entirety on the web. As this is Blue Collar Fugue, the March Fugue of the Month is JS Bach’s Fugue in C Major, performed by Samuel Backman here (at 47:55). It also gave me a chance to wear my “I’ll be Bach” Terminator mash-up sweatshirt.

I’ve been reading more this month, and I’d like to highlight a few of my favorites:

• I can’t quit thinking about this beautiful essay “Make Room for Space” (not only because Alysha is a dear friend). Read it, and then read it again. Follow/Subscribe to her Substack. You will not be disappointed.

• As March is the “5-year Anniversary of Covid” (as if that’s something we’re supposed to celebrate) I re-read this poignant essay by Chef Gabrielle Hamilton, about one of the many tragedies that unfolded in those early days of the pandemic.

• A dark, lyric essay by poet Tony Hoagland from the Winter 2019-2020 Ploughshares—“Bent Arrows: On Anticipation of My Approaching Disappearance.”

• Low: Notes on Trash & Art by Jaydra Johnson, which I immediately ordered upon hearing Johnson’s interview with Brendan O’Meara on the Creative Nonfiction Podcast while out for a long run.

• A lovely zine titled “Here’s to the Land: The NC State Toast Fanzine” by Erin J. Watson, from the Zine-A-Month Patreon

I took an informative two-hour workshop titled “Shaping Family History into Compelling Stories” by fellow Substacker Annette Gendler.

And I did some writing/revising/editing as well, adding the following pieces to my Substack and here:

• A poem questioning the pursuit of “success,” starring Ariana Grande and a starling

• A journal entry from March 2017, one month before Leah and I started dating

• A piece inspired by a spreadsheet I found from the Pine City (MN) Press

• A poem I wrote in 2nd grade, which was published in our school-wide chapbook. Kudos to the North Dakota Public School system, circa 1988, and to my Mom for holding onto everything I’ve ever written. I’ll leave you with that poem, which TBH might be one of the better poems I’ve written in 35 years:

“Learning to live takes a whole life”

-Seneca

Diary entry from March 23, 2017

I ran again this morning, blah blah blah.

I posted things to social media and waited around for likes, blah blah blah.

I thought about L. and wished/doubted that she was thinking about me, blah blah blah.

I am a romantic idiot. Haven’t you learnt yet that life doesn’t work the way you want it to work?

I’ve been thinking about L. for weeks, and does she have any clue that you’re interested in her? Absolutely not. And how do YOU know that you’re even ready for a relationship? Maybe she’s not searching for anything like that either. You’re a perfect fool. What are you hoping for? That she is going to be so overcome with emotion from your hackneyed FecesBook posts that she’s going to telephone you immediately and ask you on a date? What if she’s got somebody better on her radar?

What can I say? I’m already looking forward to the next Tuesday morning 3RUN2 meet-up. Why? Because you made such a strong impression last Tuesday? You didn’t even acknowledge her existence, you fucking idiot. What a true fool. 37 years old and a complete buffoon with women—no clue whatsoever.

What would you even say? Imagine for a moment that you accepted her offer to drive you home on a Thursday evening after run club. What would you say as she eased her car toward the curb near the weird yellow house wherein I haunt the upper floor. Imagine she’s looking at you with those sparkling blue eyes. What do you say? I was wondering if you have plans sometime this weekend? Voice warbling like a prepubescent knucklehead. I was wondering if you might maybe wanna get coffee sometime possibly?!? What a perfectly moronic plan.

What are you afraid of? I think it’s fair to assume that she’s got at least some minor amount of interest in you. Interest is relative though. Interest like the way I’m interested in her? Or interest like the way I’m interested in selling all my worldly possessions and becoming a beach yogi drifter in Ecuador?

What do you say? What should/could/would you say? She’s staring at you with those eyes: cool, blue, deep, full of light and life—out of my league gorgeous. And all you can muster is: Thank you so much for the ride. Uhm, have a good night?

Try again, sonny.

While you sit here, “hemming and hawing” as Mom might say, L. is losing interest. Are you trying to sabotage yourself? I think I am! I want this to fail before it can even begin, so I can look back from some distant future and say, “damn, Dipstick, you could have had it all, but you never took your shot.” So that I can forever wonder “what could have been” rather than experiencing the expectation, exhilaration, exploration of the pursuit.

This seems like a pretty credible realization.

I am sabotaging myself. To protect my fragile, precious, hungry baby-bird ego, I avoid the difficult—and best—parts of life: the uncomfortable parts. This is good…I feel like I am on the right track here! I prefer misery to happiness, don’t I? I see myself as Elliott Slantwise Smith: a dark, tragic figure who needs to feed off his own misery in order for his art to be meaningful, and ends up thrusting a steak knife into his own heart. Everyone will call me a fraud if my art is anything but authentic and informed by the deep despair and grief inherent in my own lived experience.

What a sham, man! What a sad, simple sham. That’s no way to live. Anyway, if you were gonna be an artist, you woulda been one before now.

I’m suddenly feeling enthusiastic that I have discovered (or rediscovered?) this about myself. It only took 37 years of failed relationships. What does a successful relationship look like? I guess one in which the other person either brings a dowry of joy, novelty, passion, and brunch into your life (not fucking likely), or one in which she is as interested in your personal growth as she is in her own. F! Where is all this solid relationship advice coming from all of a sudden? #NotMad.

Okay, so now what are you gonna do about it, asshole? Why don’t you write a few more tear-stained pages about it? That’s helping push your goal forward, isn’t it?

Recent Deaths of Note from Nelson’s Notable Deaths Compendium

Volume IV (excerpt: La—Lu)*

Lambert, Mrs L. F. — heart attack, butter maker, 1937 Larson, Edwin — son of Carrie and O. P., tuberculosis, gassed in France, 1934 Lawrence, Elizabeth — lynched for reprimanding white children who threw stones at her, 1933 Lee, Pavlo “Pasha” — actor, killed defending Kyiv from Russian offensive, 2022 Leinonen, Andrew — shot dead at Pulse nightclub massacre, 2016 Lloyd, Dee — aged 17, texting while driving, 2019 Logan, Andrew — stranger, suicide by train, 1932 Logan, Jessica — aged 18, suicide by cyberbullying, 2008 Long, Wm. H. — Lutheran minister, suicide by carbolic acid, 1935 Loughran, Cara Marie — aged 14, murdered by school shooter, 2018 Luehmann, Henrietta Schultz — aged 21, stove explosion, 1938 Luehmann, Geraldine — aged 16 months, stove explosion, 1938 Lueth, Betty Hawkinson — aged 15, suicide by AI Chatbot, 2025

*We have two individuals to thank for this file: Marge Swinton who compiled it, and Nora O’Hearn who entered all the data into the computer. Both jobs were incredible tasks.

February 2025 Recap!

Bolt and bar the shutter,

for the foul winds blow:

our minds are at their best this night,

and I seem to know

that everything outside us is

mad as the mist and snow.

—William Butler Yeats

What a wild ride February has been. America, it seems, is exhausted. How are you, dear reader? The yoga teacher in my wants to remind you to take extra time today (and every day if you are able) to just breathe. Maybe that’s right now; this moment. Just close your eyes and take three deep breaths. I’ll wait…

Great start. Let’s keep it up!

I’ve been looking for service opportunities this month. And writing; writing has helped. I stole my good buddy Tommy’s idea and volunteered for Twin Cities Habitat for Humanity. Orientation takes place in early March, and I hope to be building homes in underserved neighborhoods by the time you read my next newsletter (which, thank you, by the way). I volunteered to review grant applications for PFund, a local foundation “which helps build more equitable communities for queer people in the Upper Midwest”. While looking for opportunities in the veteran hospice space, I came across an organization called Grace Hospice. There are opportunities at Grace Hospice to perform legacy work (helping people write their memories), pet therapy (I’m looking at you Churro!), patient companionship, and vigil work as well. I had a nice conversation with their volunteer coordinator Bryan, who told me they currently don’t have any veteran volunteers, which I found shocking! Orientation for Grace isn’t until April, but I’m eager to help out in that space as well. 

[Quick aside: a number of years ago, I recorded an a cappella group called the Threshold Singers, which sings at the beds of hospice patients. Here’s one of their songs:]

So what? I hear you asking. Do I hear the dreaded bells of “virtue-signaling” ringing across the land? [That’s what “They” want, by the way, to turn us against each other with labels and buzz words. Don’t fall for it, friends. Use your brains, use your hearts.] Here’s the reality: I have time to spare, and my conscience can only rest when I know that others in my community aren’t needlessly suffering. 

My favorite picture of my grandma Helen. Unknown date, likely early 1940s.

If you had told me a month ago that I’d be spending my writing time in February working on various genealogy-centric essays, I simply wouldn’t have believed you. Yet, here we are. It started, as I thought about my grandma Helen (Thue) Sauvageau in early February—she passed away in February of 2017. As I thought about her, I created an account on FamilySearch and pretty quickly started finding information about the Sauvageau and Thue side of the family (my dad’s folks). It’s pretty wild, but I was able to track the Sauvageaus back to Marcé-sur-Esves and Poitou-Charentes, France in the 1640s. I traced my Grandma Helen’s grandparents to Møre og Romsdal and Hallingdal, Norway in the 1860s.

Helen Sauvageau’s parents: Albert Peder and Inga Olive (née Braaten) Thue. Prior to 1953. According to Dad, this was taken at their old farmstead near Kindred, ND.

My mom’s family was a bit harder to trace, but I’m making some progress there. I wrote a little about my research and findings regarding her maternal grandmother, Edna Celina (née Melsness) McGough here.

In the process of that research, I registered for an account with Newspapers.com, which features a wealth of digitized newspapers from around the world. Cross-referencing these with family tree sites, military drafts, and census information has allowed me to feel closer to my long-gone ancestors than I ever imagined. I had no idea, for instance, that my great-grandfather Arthur Lemke’s brother Albert died in a house fire which started when he fell while smoking a cigaret [sic]!

February was a good month for adventures in Classical music. For my birthday, Leah got me tickets to a Schubertiade performance by the Schubert Club, featuring local band Kiss the Tiger at a Saint Paul bar called Amsterdam. As a big Schubert fan, it was great to hear some new and traditional takes on his music.

Schubertiade at Amsterdam featuring Kiss the Tiger

I got to record my second opera in February: Snowy Day, as performed by the Minnesota Opera. Joel Thompson composed Snowy Day in 2021, based on the 1962 children’s book of the same name by Ezra Jack Keats. It was a lovely opera, and since I was recording it for work, I got to see it four times (during rehearsals) prior to the opening night recording. Check out a promo from the production below!

Then, back at MPR HQ, I got to record audio for countertenor Aryeh Nussbaum Cohen and pianist John Churchwell, as they performed music of Robert and Clara Schumann, Johannes Brahms, and Wolfgang Korngold. I’ll likely post a video of that in the next month as well.

Something fun

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Something fun 〰️

Something fun that we did in February was taking Churro to Pug Night at Unleashed Hounds and Hops in the North Loop of Minneapolis. Beer and pugs: what could be better? I counted about 40 other pugs, and of course dozens of other breeds. We even met another fawn pug named Churro and talked to her parents for a while too.

The Human Caterpillar of pugs named Churro

Churro giving strong “can we go home now” vibes

Until we meet again, dear reader, keep breathing!

On This Day: 2/16/16

Every so often, I’ll dip back into my Morning Pages to find an entry from this day in my history, and reproduce it here.

Dear god, another two weeks have elapsed since last I cracked open this journal. It’s been a month since I moved into my new apartment, and it is finally starting to feel like mine, yet I haven’t spent much time there, except to sleep. Two weeks ago, I taught four yoga classes, and last week I taught three—seven total from Wednesday to Wednesday, that on top of my 40+ hour per week day job. Add that to band practice and recordings and I’m feeling maxed out.

Yesterday, finally, I had a true day to my Self, and I got a lot accomplished. I did some freelance audio editing, fit in a good run at a fast 6’54/mile pace [holy shit, I actually cannot believe I ever ran that fast for any length of time], and played a show with As 40 Sleeps at fucking Phyllis’ Musical Inn. Lord, how I despise that place. But before our show, I walked down the street to eat a sandwich at Jerry’s. While I was sitting there, feeling pissed off that we were playing so late (midnight!), a gent sat down next to me at the bar. 

You are really pulling off that scarf, my man.

“Oh, thanks!” It was the one that Hailey (my 15-year-old niece) crocheted me for Christmas, and I told him so.

Yeah, he said, I tried that scarf thing once and I ended up looking like Helen Mirren. I laughed—hard—and we had a good, long conversation about Wicker Park in the 1990s, the gentrification of Chicago, Ron Carter, Michael Jackson, House music, day jobs, playing with soul goddammit, the devaluation of art and attention in the age of social media, etc. He was a really interesting and thought-provoking dude. We exchanged business cards before I excused myself to Phyllis’. His name was Jevon Jackson, apparently a really well-known House DJ in Chicago for decades. He told me to hit him up some time. What a cool dude.

Liz Phair in Wicker Park in the 90s. Photo by Marty Perez

That conversation with Jevon really made me love/hate our set at Phyllis’. 

I loved it, in that our conversation truly informed my musicality that night. I think I played with more soul (goddammit) and more awareness than I usually do, and especially with this band [compared with my performances with MIDWEST^]. And I hated it in that I was acutely aware of the people who were dancing to our music: snobby young sons and daughters of wealth, who were sneering through a night out, not at the fancy bars and restaurants they (no doubt) frequent, but making the extra trek to rip Schlitz at one of Chicago’s dwindling “dive” bars. I guess what I’m trying to say is I felt like a fraud, playing music for a bunch of bigger frauds. 

Milwaukee, North and Damen in 1988. Photo by Jeff Wassmann

I want to live as authentically as possible. I want to live authentically, if possible.

Be authentic. Be real. Single-task whenever possible. Keep an eye on the finish line, but don’t forget to watch the ground passing underfoot.

Alexis, myself, and Jack Brett. Photo by Crystal Lynn circa 2016

[^My former band MIDWEST’s music below:]

Last Letter Home

In 2022, I received an ancient record from my supervisor, Mike. “This is a personal favor for a friend,” he said. I held the yellowed wax and paper disc by the edges and read the name on the label: SEAMAN GEORGE S—

I looked at Mike with fascination. What is this?

“It’s a letter, on record, from this young sailor to his family, before he shipped out in the Pacific theater during World War II. He never made it home.” Mike paused and looked at me. “Most of his family is gone now too, but this friend of mine is a relative and he’d love to hear it.”

As a Navy veteran myself, and in my current capacity as an audio engineer, I was eager to take this project on. The process of transcription was an arduous one. The record was so old and warped that it was very difficult to discern what was said. I digitized it and then set about “cleaning” the audio through various audio restoration software. The result was good, but it was no magic wand. It was still very difficult to hear what SN George S— had to say.

[Actual audio from this digitization of the record]

So I set about creating a transcript of what I could make out. If the family of our sailor was unable to hear all of the words, at least I could make my best effort at writing what I heard. Again, this was a painstaking process of listening, rewinding, scrubbing the audio. As I slowly re-created the transcript, I started to see, in the repetition, in the slow choosing of words, a kind of poetry emerging. Not that this sailor was a poet (for all I know he may have been), but the way this 70-year-old audio was conducting through my ears, to my brain, and out my pen, was a transliterative process of sorts.

Finally, after weeks of cobbling together the cleanest version of the audio and my transcript to deliver to Mike, I started forming a poem from the record. Utilizing the repetition of the transcription, utilizing the space and the thought and the imagination that I needed to access what was being said, this piece began to emerge.

I call it Last Letter Home, and it was published in North Dakota Quarterly Volume 90 Issue 3/4.

[My reading of the poem, if you prefer]

Sidetracked While Searching for Inga Paulson

While scouring Canadian newspapers for any sign of Mrs Ingaborg Paulson, I came across this harrowing tale of a forest fire that ripped through northern Minnesota in the Manitoba Free Press, Vol XXII, No. 42, dated Thursday, September 13, 1894. The headline: PILES OF DEAD BODIES. You won’t read this in the newspapers of today.

The general executive committee in charge of the relief works in this section has made a report of the dead bodies recovered thus far as follows: Hinckley, 271; Sandstone, 77; Miller (often called Sandstone Junction), 15; between Skunk Lake and Miller, 12…total, 450(!) Following is a complete list of the dead at Sandstone: Peter Kallam, quarryman; Mrs. Peter Kallam and three children; Mrs Marion Greenfield and five children; Mr and Mrs Gus Anderson and three children…Peter England, quarryman, Mrs Peter England and seven children…Mr JA Johnson, merchant; Mrs JA Johnson, infant child and 12 year old boy…fourteen unrecognizable and fifteen not yet identified…

Everything at Sandstone has burned, the only thing left standing being the school house walls and big bank safe. The only living things to be seen there Sunday night when the relief party arrived were a horse and pig. Sixty-two bodies were buried thus far in town, not counting the numbers which have been found in the outlying country and buried where found.

The fire was seen by the Sandstone people four hours before it struck the town and everything was packed up in readiness to move to Kettle River, east of the village. Before any one was aware of the real danger, the fire came upon the town from the north, east and west and burned the whole town inside of five minutes. Many were unable to reach the river and died in the streets. A blacksmith was burned to a crisp in his shop where he was shoeing a horse, so sudden was the fire…Those who reached the river remained most of the night. The survivors are entirely destitute…whole families are wiped out.

Judge Nethaway, of Stillwater, has been one of the most active in relief work and has been all over the surrounding country…Seven miles northwest of Hinckley, he came to a spot where a farm house had stood. In front was a well and over to the left could be seen five human bodies and bodies of several animals. Nethaway went at once to the well and there found down in the bottom a little 12-year-old boy, in eight inches of water, who had lived there since Saturday with nothing to eat.

…at noon the body of old Jerry Cowles with the head burned beyond almost all recognition, was found across the river in the gravel pit…the smell which goes up from Hinckley is a terrible one. Where the depot stood was a burned, charred hand; farther down the tracks lay a woman’s limb while out in the surrounding country one finds human trunks, heads or bones. Late in the afternoon the body of a man with intestines exposed and body black as coal was brought into town along with a child’s fearfully burned body, and a man’s leg and shoe. All were thrown into one pine coffin and buried.

Who Was Bomie’s Mommy?

As a way to distract myself from the slow-motion suicide of our once beautiful United States, I’ve been researching my family tree.

There are many many websites available for those interested in their heritage. The obvious benefit of there being so very many of these conglomerators (ancestry.com, familysearch.com, findmypast.com, etc.), is having relatively easy access to information that didn’t exist a quarter century ago. The (also obvious) problem with all of these competing websites is information mismatch. One branch of the family tree may be filled out and flourishing on myheritage.com, while that same branch would be sawn off on ancestorrecords.com.

I was quite surprised to find how fully fleshed out my family tree was on my dad’s side. In fact there are some quite interesting lines reaching (tangentially of course) to King Louis XIV, The “Sun” King of France (who built Versailles, among other achievements).

Louis XIV - infamously NOT a Sauvageau

On my mom’s side though, the family tree is a bit murkier. I’ve also discovered some interesting things there, and I’m preparing an essay on these discoveries, but one aspect in particular has been bothering me.

Family history

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FUN!

〰️

Family history 〰️ FUN! 〰️

As a 10-year-old, I remember Mom taking Lacey and I to a small apartment in Dilworth, MN. The cramped living room was filled with distant relatives, some of whom I remembered seeing at weddings and holidays. These were Mom’s cousins, aunts and uncles, and her maternal grandfather, Bompa. The 700 Club was airing on the small TV set in the corner, as my second-cousins, great-aunts, and great-uncles conversed. Some were quiet, others laughed, but in all their eyes I saw the same dread. When we entered the room, Bompa raised his ancient arm, pointing to the rear of the apartment. Mom nodded and led us in that direction.

The bedroom door was open wide. The curtains were drawn, blocking out the mid-afternoon sunlight. Upon the queen-sized bed, lied my great-grandma, Bomie. She was sleeping on her back, curly mass of white hair in a mess, her mouth open wide. I stood in the door frame, unable to move. I didn’t want to look at her. My eyes sought out other parts of the dank bedroom. I noticed the vanity in the corner had a large rectangular mirror. I thought it odd that nobody had bothered to cover up the looking-glass with a dark sheet, worrying, when she dies, won’t her spirit be trapped in the mirror? Meanwhile, Mom approached the bed and softly laid a hand on the comforter. We stood there for five minutes before joining the others in the living room.

Bomie and Bompa (Edna and Ed McGough), with my Uncle Larry Lemke on the davenport, circa mid-1980s

Within a few days, Bomie had passed. Hers was the first funeral I can remember attending.

Thirty-five years after Bomie’s death, Leah popped into my office to ask me how my research was going. Well, I’m concerned about Edna Celina, I said. Bomie, or Edna Celina McGough (née Melsness) was my Grandma Dorothy Lemke’s mother. Edna’s branch of the family tree was dotted with question marks. I knew that she and Bompa gave birth to eleven children, and that my Grandma Dorothy was the eldest of them. I could trace Bompa (Edward Francis McGough)’s family back to his Irish great-grandfather, Thomas McGough (born in 1818). Bomie’s lineage was mysterious, at least on the available family tree websites. One listed only her mother (“Miss Tole?”) with no further information available.

On another site, I found Edna Melsness mentioned in the Minnesota Census of 1910. Edna was 3 at the time, living with someone named Gust Hicks in Holy Cross Township, Minnesota, about twenty miles south of Fargo along the Red River. Mr Hicks was listed as head of household. The line below Hicks read Ingaborg Paulson, next to Inga was scrawled: “mother”. Below Ingaborg was my 3-year-old Great-Grandmother, Edna Melsness: “boarder” and an 8-year-old Aleda Melsness. 

The next clue I found were some school records for Edna Melsness from 1915 through 1919, listing Inga Paulson as “mother” and another Minnesota Census from 1920, still listing Gust Hicks, Ingaborg Paulson, and 13-year-old Edna Melsness (absent Aleda) in the same household in Holy Cross Township. That’s it! I concluded, Edna’s mother was Ingaborg Paulson. All I could find about Ingaborg, however, was that she was born in Sweden in 1863, and that she was widowed. I knew that Edna was born in Starbuck, Manitoba in about 1906, which would have made Inga 43 at the time of Edna’s birth. So I set out to find more information about who Edna’s father was. He was clearly dead before the 1910 census, which listed Ingaborg as a widow. Also from the 1910 census, I knew that Edna’s mother was Swedish and her father was Norwegian, so I started looking around for Norwegian immigrants, with the last name of Melsness, who likely died in Canada before 1910. 

I came up empty-handed. Over and over. I texted Mom, who said her cousin Kim had found some information on ancestry.com, but I couldn’t corroborate it.

As the days ticked by, I kept thinking about poor Ingaborg. A Swede, widowed in Starbuck, Manitoba, deciding to move to rural Minnesota with her two young daughters at the dawn of the 20th century. What happened to her? I reactivated my subscription to newspapers.com and scoured the Fargo Forum and Daily Republican for the years 1900 to 1925 for any mention of Edna Melsness or Ingaborg Paulson and again, came up empty. Only a brief wedding announcement on January 31, 1924: “E. F. McGough weds Miss Melsness.”

Finally, it dawned on me to expand my search to Google, which led me to a newspaperarchive.com clipping from the June 22, 1943 Moorhead Daily News:

Moorhead Daily News June 22, 1943

Holy shit! A revelation. Edna’s dad didn’t die prior to 1910, he was alive and kicking until 1943! And living in sunny Santa Monica, to boot. And not only that, this obit mentioned that O.H. [Olaf] Melsness was apparently married to someone named Augusta Sole, and then, upon her passing, remarried to another Norwegian, named Thea Gulbrandsen, and they had at least one additional child in 1912. Was Thea Gulbrandsen my great-grandma’s mother? The timing seemed to bear it out.

I started looking into Thea’s origins next. She was born in Norway on May 4, 1870 and immigrated to Minnesota in the 1890s, where she married a Swede named Peter Hersberg in 1900. I couldn’t discover much about Mr Hersberg, apart from the shocking fact that he was at some point admitted to the “Third Minnesota State Hospital for the Insane” in Fergus Falls, Minnesota. Even more salacious, I found Hersberg’s official death certificate, stating that he died while at the asylum, with the note: “Refused to eat. Starved.” Wild! Hersberg passed in 1910, though, which meant that there was either some very salacious happenings between his wife, Thea Gulbrandsen, and my married(?) great-great-grandfather, or simply, that Thea was not Edna’s mother.

So then, perhaps Bomie’s mommy was Augusta Sole? Miss Tole??

I started rooting around in Manitoba’s government records (thank you for being so organized and not hiding behind paywalls, Canada). The last name Melsness did turn up one death: Osker Alfonse Melsness, only 10 months old, who died January 23, 1903. Edna’s older brother? The obit for O.H. Melsness stated that he and Augusta had five children (of eight) remaining. Osker’s place of death was RM Macdonald. The Rural Municipality of Macdonald, Manitoba, is just southwest of Winnipeg, and contains the small town of Starbuck. BINGO! This led me to findagrave.com, where I searched for Starbuck, Manitoba cemeteries. The Starbuck Cemetery, dating from 1902 has over 600—mostly Swedish and Norwegian—immigrants buried there, and only ONE Melsness:

Augusta O SOLE Melsness (wife of O.H. Melsness) born Feb 4th, 1872, died July 5th, 1908. Called Higher.

This lovely, lichen-covered headstone was the proof I was searching for. Bomie’s mother was Augusta Sole, a Swedish immigrant, who at age 26, in 1898, married Olaf H Melsness in Moorhead, Minnesota before immigrating to rural Manitoba. Over the next ten years, Augusta gave birth to eight(!) children, some in Minnesota, and at least two, including Edna/Bomie and her sister Alida in Manitoba. According to the records that I have found, including a 1906 Canadian census, Edna would have been her youngest child to survive. It’s important to note that my original search of the Canadian census records failed for “Melsness” because the poor penmanship of the census-taker shows the last name as “Mesness”. Once I searched that last name, this document was uncovered:

In chatting with Mom about these details, she confirmed: “I remember something about Bomie’s father sending her and Alida to go live with family in Minnesota.” I learned that Alida returned to Manitoba and married, but I know even less about her three other siblings, Barney, Henry, and Walter.

I’m left thinking about Bomie, too, on her deathbed in 1991, with plenty of family surrounding her—yet her own mother passed away when she was only two, and her father, Olof, remarried when Bomie was six, and ostensibly disappeared to the west coast, while Bomie continued to reside with Ms Ingaborg Paulson.

The death of Mrs Augusta Sole is tragic: this young, 36-year-old Swedish immigrant, who gave birth to eight children and left behind her five surviving babes, all under ten years of age. If Augusta hadn’t passed away, Olof would have had no reason to send my 3-year-old great-grandmother to live with relative strangers in Minnesota, which is where she would meet Bompa and begin my Mom’s family tree. If Augusta hadn’t died so young, my beloved Grandma Dorothy wouldn’t have existed, nor her ten brothers and sisters, my mom wouldn’t exist, my uncles and aunts, my cousins, my sisters, my neices and nephews; I wouldn’t be here, piecing together this story, 117 years after Augusta’s death.

Opus 18, No.4

In the 1980s, my parents owned a Zenith record player. It had a plastic silver face, faux wood-grain sides and a tuner display that glowed lime green when switched on. Mom and Dad didn’t own very many LPs — but what they had was gold. Sam Cooke, the Beach Boys, the Beatles, Marvin Gaye, the Temptations: this was the music of their heyday. There was no Beethoven in their collection, no Miles Davis either. No Public Enemy nor Cyndi Lauper, although Dad did love Whitney Houston and kept a copy of her self-titled debut cassette tape in his vehicle for at least a decade after its release. You haven’t lived until you’ve seen a man with a gun rack in the back window of his truck earnestly singing along to “How Will I Know?”

As I became a teen, my parents’ tastes veered more towards Travis Tritt and Randy Travis: countrified tunes that didn’t connect with me. I was soon taking cues from Soundgarden and Pearl Jam. I started playing bass guitar at fourteen and took bass lessons for a short while that spring. By the end of June, I had worked through all the lessons in The Electric Bass Primer, Volume 1. Ray, my bass teacher at Star Guitar, told me to bring in tapes of songs I liked and wanted to learn and he’d teach me to play “by ear”. Ray rolled his eyes when I brought in Nirvana’s “Smells Like Teen Spirit” and “Love Buzz”. He was able to figure out, play, and begin teaching both songs to me in under five minutes. Kurt Cobain was a tortured genius, but Nirvana’s bassist, Krist Novoselic, was white bread — boring and uninspired. I didn’t realize it at the time, but Ray sure did. The next week I brought in “Heart-Shaped Box” and “Polly”. Ray yawned. A couple of months later, I brought my cassette of Dookie to rehearsal and Ray’s eyes lit up. When he heard Green Day’s “Welcome to Paradise” he smiled: Now, there’s a bassline! Let’s get to work.

My interest in Nirvana and Green Day led me directly to an underground, independent punk music scene that was inexplicably flourishing in Minot, North Dakota at the time. Mid-nineties punk legends like Bikini Kill, Godheadsilo, Fitz of Depression and many others played for legions of enthusiastic spike and leather-wearing teens. At my first band’s first show, on a Sunday night, in front of a half dozen friends, I wore an American flag-bedecked motorcycle helmet, with visor down, as I plunked through the set, playing my janky little bass lines.

A decade later, I was still cranking out janky little bass lines, sans motorcycle helmet. During my time in the Navy, I met a couple of guys and invited myself to play bass with them. We’d play Creedence and Jackson 5 cover songs in the dive bars of the Pacific Northwest, Guam, and Virginia.

As I planned for my impending post-military future, I was also embarking on one of my annual existential crises. I was loosely looking into colleges I wanted to attend, but had no clue what I wanted to major in. If hard-pressed, I would venture only a room-temperature response: “something in music?”

Klickitat County (James Rascoe, yours truly, and Jack Brett), circa 2004

I was fortunate enough to have a bevy of free time — as our ship was in dry dock — and signed up for some general education courses at Old Dominion University. My course-load for my first semester at ODU shows the confusion I held for my imminent future: Physics of Sound, Sailing 101, Intro to Creative Writing, and Music Literature Survey. Of the latter, I had no idea what to expect, I just knew I’d probably learn something about music. As it turns out, it was a history of classical music from the Middle Ages to present. One of the requirements of the class was to attend at least two classical recitals per semester and write up concert reports afterward. That assignment led me to Beethoven, and the rest of my life.

The first concert I attended for the class was in September, 2006 at Chandler Hall on the campus of ODU. The Borromeo Quartet was performing Beethoven’s String Quartet in c minor, Op. 18 №4 along with two other string quartets that I have long since forgotten. The hall was intimate but sparsely-attended. By the second bar of the first movement of Op. 18 №4, I was riveted. I would soon discover that there is nothing inherently groundbreaking about Beethoven’s Op. 18 No. 4. It doesn’t represent an evolution in Beethoven’s own compositional style. It is no “Ghost Trio,” no “Pathetique” Sonata, certainly no Symphony №9. It is nearly lost in the classical haystack that also contains Bach’s perfect cello sonatas, Bellini’s operatic arias, and Chopin’s heart-wrenching nocturnes.

But the sound of that quartet in Chandler Hall was as smooth as a good merlot. Wood paneling projected and refined the unamplified violins, viola and cello. The first and second violinists leaned into the music, swaying with the downstrokes. The violist’s eyes flashed back and forth from the cello to the violins, reading them for rhythm, for changes in tempo. The music built to a galloping, swelling ending with all four strings playing three fortissimo triplets in unison. The sparse crowd waited for the reverberation of the final chord to fully decay before applauding the musicians. I had literally never heard music like this before.

When I walked out of Chandler Hall that night, I knew what I wanted to major in. I wanted to preserve that performance. I wanted to put that sound in a jar, and open it up whenever I was feeling hopeless or lost. I wanted to re-create that concert for anyone who couldn’t attend the recital. I wanted to be a classical recording engineer.

One year later, I was living in Chicago, majoring in Audio Arts and Acoustics, and cold-calling local classical groups to see if I could record their recitals. I was volunteering at the CSO and subscribing to BBC Music magazine. By 2010, I was interning at Chicago’s only classical radio station, WFMT. I worked my way up the ranks, from intern to overnight Production Assistant to Recording Engineer — my goal — before moving up to Operations Manager and finally Chief Engineer in 2017.

I can’t listen to any one genre of music for too long without growing a little tired of it, so I listen to all styles, from Billie Holiday to Amalia Rodrigues to Megan Thee Stallion. But every time I hear the Op. 18 №4, I stop whatever I’m doing and fall back in love with classical music.

Rebel at Heart, Obliger by Nature

In The Four Tendencies, author Gretchen Rubin filters the population into four personality types: Upholder, Questioner, Rebel, and Obliger. To describe the Obliger as “conflict-averse” would be hitting the nail on the head with a hydrogen bomb. Obligers are far and away the most passive of the personality types—these are your silent sufferers. That friend of yours who will change planned weekend getaway to meet you for coffee because you had a stressful week? She’s an Obliger. She may have just lost her arms in a thresher accident, but since she’s an Obliger, she won’t bother you with her own travails, she’ll just nod and listen, wishing she was at home bleeding out in the privacy of her own bathtub. Then she will pick up the bill, because you are such a good friend. 

I am an Obliger, by nature. 

I am eleven years old. There’s this bully named Geirke. Big ears, bad breath, a foot and a half taller than every other fifth grader. He’s been relentlessly antagonizing my friends and me for weeks. On the playground, Geirke gives me an atomic wedgie. I emit a high-pitched squeal and need to visit the school nurse immediately after. Another day, I’m standing in line at the lunchroom, talking to my secret crush Marissa, when Geirke pulls my sweatpants down around my ankles. I drop my lunch tray in a frantic maneuver to cover my exposed bare ass-cheeks. Tuna noodle casserole, green beans, and chocolate pudding splatter to the floor. Geirke steals plastic straws from McDonalds and then spends Social Studies pelting me in the back of the neck with spitballs he made from moistened pages of his textbook. I silently oblige all Geirke’s bad behavior as a penance—in Sunday School that year, the nuns taught me all about penance. If I didn’t confess my sins to Father Halverson and perform a penance for those sins, I was guaranteed to go to Hell. Getting bullied by Geirke was probably my penance for not cleaning the litter box or for calling the neighbor lady a “cock-whore” that time in second grade.

Adolescent Obliger (sauvagicus obligicus) in the wild, no doubt doing an acquaintance’s homework

The Obliger sees their needs as less important than those of others—these are your door-mats, your Iditarod dogs. The Obliger willingly takes on more external obligations than a reasonable person would care to shoulder, but in so doing, often fail to take care of themselves. They eat Taco Bell because they are too busy cooking for others to plan a healthy meal for themselves. They skip the gym because they are too busy reviewing their coworker’s presentation notes. When happy-go-lucky non-Obligers try to intervene—You need a spa day! or I use meditation as a way to ground myself in the present moment!—the Obliger laughs out loud. The concept of having enough time to do something nice for themselves is a riot. “If only there were 36 hours in a day...” they smile wryly, while secretly acknowledging they would spend 35 of those hours obliging others.

 I am thirty-two years old and I’m composing the score for a short film, gratis. The director/writer/lead actor calls it a “Western Noir”. The story is bad, the acting is worse, and the music is bordering on maniacal, but I am dedicated to doing the job. I know I will receive no pay, or even recognition for my work, but I am obliged to finish what I started. During the eight months I spend composing, orchestrating, performing, recording, and revising the music, I lose, over and over. I commit to band practices but fail to show up because I’m working on a picture-lock deadline for Savage Noir. This happens often enough that I finally get a terse text from Rob, who is obviously an Upholder: “Sounds like the band isn’t really a priority for you anymore, Josh.” I begin to wonder exactly what my priorities are once my rocky marriage reaches a crevice of no return, culminating in divorce. I can’t even commit to carving out the last half-hour of my day to watch Curb Your Enthusiasm, because I’m too tired from overcommitting. It’s pretty, pretty, pretty…not good.

The Obliger is prone to snapping. These are your glue huffers, your bar brawlers. Granted, as far as brawling is concerned, Rebels are equally as culpable. If you’re looking for someone to break up a bar brawl, locate an Upholder (these are your saints, your Eagle Scouts), or at the very least, a Questioner (your naïfs, your exploitative middle managers). When neighbors later proclaim I never would have guessed she had it in her, or he seemed like such a kind, quiet lad, they’re referring to Obligers. 

I am thirty-five years old and I’ve unceremoniously walked out on a promising new career as a government bureaucrat. I’m giving it all up to enroll in yoga teacher training. I picture myself shirtless, on a beach in Belize, leading sun salutations to a group of wealthy British tourists. My parents are both frowning at me from the couch. Sleet pelts their living room window like Geirke’s spitballs pelted my neck in fifth grade. I know this is serious though, because it’s 6:30 and they’ve turned off Wheel of Fortune. This feels like that time in high school when I careened into their driveway behind the wheel of a new Chevy Cavalier I purchased on a high-interest MasterCard. Or that time I told them my first choice, backup, and safety colleges were all in Hawaii. 

“What about retirement, son?” My Dad, retired for ten years, pleads (he’s an Upholder).

“Retirement!” I laugh obnoxiously, and for too long. “My generation doesn’t get to retire!” 

Boomers. Amirite?

“Well, as long as you’re happy...” my Mom shrugs. She’s an Obliger too. 

RUTH

Mom, Lace and I moved back in with Dad in Minot, midway through my eighth-grade year. I played sousaphone in the marching band, wore tee shirts bearing the logo of my previous school, tucked into ill-fitting Lee jeans that Grandma and Grandpa purchased from the Dakota Boys Ranch thrift store. I often tied a long-sleeve flannel around my waist, à la Joey Lawrence’s character (“Joey”) on Blossom. The popular kids at my new school would wait long enough for my back to be turned before letting out a loud, sarcastic “WHOA!” At home, I’d listen to my Boyz II Men and The Bodyguard cassettes, alone in my bedroom.

Even though attending the middle school soirées had been my favorite activity at Dilworth-Glyndon-Felton Junior High, I have yet to make an appearance at any of the Erik Ramstad dances. In Spring, when the eighth-grade formal comes around, I have no intention of attending. On the drive to school one morning, Mom asks me, out of the blue, “Are there any girls you have your eye on?” My face turns red as I shrug and stare out the back seat window. Mom is persistent though, and at some point over the following days, I reveal that I have a minor crush on Ruth, who plays clarinet in the school band. Ruth’s often unkempt hair is the color of the bear pelt in Dad’s den. She has braces and a charmingly self-conscious smile. We have never spoken. There is no overlap between her friend group and mine. In fact, my friend “group” only consists of Aaron, a guy from my Social Studies class who wears a Nirvana Incesticide shirt and doodles in his textbook rather than taking notes.

On the evening of the formal, I am in my bedroom, shirtless in Zubaz and watching Cops on a tiny, hand-me-down black and white TV while playing on a 3D vision board: a “bass guitar” I have constructed from an empty Kleenex box, a cardboard paper towel tube, and four rubber bands. Mom raps on my door and tells me to get dressed up in a hurry—she has a surprise for me. I hear unfamiliar voices in the living room as I don my black silk shirt and a clip-on tie patterned with dueling electric guitars against a neon blue background. As I walk into the living room, I am stunned to see Ruth, who appears as bewildered as I am. I look at Mom and then at Ruth, who stares at our stained carpet. Our black longhaired cat, Circe, rubs herself against Ruth’s bare shins. Ruth takes a pronounced step backwards.

Mom clasps her hands to her chest and coos. “Let me get a picture of you two over by the TV set.” Reluctantly, Ruth comes alongside me. We exchange fleeting, embarrassed eye contact before I return my gaze to my feet. Ruth presses her hands along her knee-length floral-print skirt, and looks up long enough for Mom to snap her photos. Ruth’s dad is idling in the driveway. She sits up front with her dad, while I hop in the backseat. The vehicle is completely silent as he drives us to the school. Once Ruth and I walk through the doors of the cafeteria/gym/dancefloor, she joins her friends and I sit alone in the bleachers, wondering how Mom got Ruth’s phone number.

I never speak to Ruth again.

Like Playing Your Life Savings on Pull-Tabs

I’ve been waiting 

so long 

for this moment.

Through Mondays cramped with meetings.

Through Tuesdays of unending paperwork. 

Through Wednesdays of pointless errands..

Through Thursdays too scattered to think.

Through Fridays filled with anticipation.

Through evenings too tired to raise the remote.

Past chores that double into the infinite,

and boggle the mind at their insignificance.

I’ve been waiting 

so long 

for this moment

and now I feel it

running out; circling

like brown toilet water,

before clear water

fills it again.

But the odor lingers.^

^Eat your fucking heart out, Emily Dickinson

Photo by Bradley Stemke

Still Life in Red, White, & Blue

On the morning of September 26, 2016, I was making my morning bike commute down Damen Ave in Chicago. I whizzed past stalled traffic, wondering why the street was uncommonly jammed, but soon noticed flashing lights in the distance. As I approached the intersection of Damen and Addison, I came across a scene that will haunt me forever. A bicyclist’s worst nightmare. A fatal accident. Everything became very quiet, very still. I got off my bike and walked it across the intersection as a cop directing traffic told me to “be careful out there.” My eye was drawn to the driver of the truck which caused the fatality. Disheveled, distraught, soiling himself. I can only imagine the trauma that he experienced and continues to experience to this day.

We lean along the fog

like Otis Redding’s airplane.

Horns honk.

Traffic is packed like 

passengers on the Doña Paz.

EMTs stand and stare 

into the mist

like veal calves.

A man in soiled blue jeans,

eyes rimmed red,

like the moon in Revelations, 

breathing hard, receiving oxygen 

in the back of an ambulance, 

white as an avalanche.

The Schwinn,

like a robin’s egg 

smashed flat

upon the asphalt, 

something sticky, 

(not quite yolk) 

squeezed around it.

Nearby, a white vinyl sheet 

with a cooling heap

piled beneath.

An unpluggable leak 

laps against the grime.

January 29 Journal Journey

29JAN2025 - I must be the dumbest fuck in my entire circle of friends. Hmm. This is what I have to say after spending an absolutely lovely weekend with my dearest compadres? F that. I had a day off Monday—a whole day to be creative, if I wanted to be—alas, I am a hack. When I have time to be creative, I end up doing something that makes ZERO impact. All the energy I have wasted on music projects. All the time I have wasted writing words that nobody cares to read, or shooting and editing stupid videos for twos and threes of views. Nobody. I am nobody.

29JAN2024 - Brainstorming for Minot Punk Zine/chapbook in the works:

Activities I enjoyed as a teenager

—Walking around Minot, ND with Aaron Davis and Kolin Thompson, before we had vehicles

—Attending shows, getting close to the stage, or back in the peripheries, eardrums ringing through the next morning. Buying tapes, patches, 7”s

—Making friends with my Burger King co-workers. Listening to CDs of the Misfits and Green Day in the back and getting chewed out by our bosses.

—Going to Jon Seright’s home and bleaching each other’s hair while watching Reservoir Dogs or Return of the Living Dead 3

—Playing bass all the time: in bands, alone with cassettes in the basement, in BJ’s parents’ garage and getting the cops called on us for noise

—Making out in RB’s bedroom with Violent Femmes playing on her bookshelf cassette player. To this day, I can’t hear “Blister in the Sun” without thinking about that. She always knew when her mom was coming home because she could hear her Blazer crunching down the gravel driveway. God, her mom was younger then than I am today.

29JAN2022 - It’s been a good week on the writing front. My essay, “The Home Depot Buddha” was workshopped in my Advanced Creative Non-Fiction class on Monday. To a person, they loved it! Some were “astonished by the honesty” in it. Others said they “Feel like it’s a gift to be able to read anything I write.” So many complements! The next morning, my professor, Dr Sarah Fay emailed to tell me she wanted me to submit it to Longreads and other journals. She told me to look in the back of Best American Essays and submit it to at least ten publications listed there, and she would help me write an introductory email! Two weeks earlier, she had praised my classroom presentation, saying she asked me to present first because she “knew I would set the bar high”. I am feeling like an actual writer, lately.

29JAN2021 - Writing, writing, writing…what a week! On Tuesday, I got an email from Pest Control Magazine stating that they had chosen to publish my poem titled “Prey”!! I am so thrilled that something I wrote will finally, for the first time, be in print! It’s been a dream of mine for as long as I can remember, and at long last, it has become reality. Yes yes, perhaps taking a writing workshop via Zoom from the editors of the journal may have improved my standing, yes yes yes, it’s a small, independent, relatively new publication. All of this is true, but it doesn’t take the bloom off the coffee. I am thrilled.

Aside from that, I’ve been working on a new poem and revising other pieces to submit elsewhere. Poetry is a hard gig.

29JAN2020 - Dear Diary, more complaints coming your way! Shocker! I have been in a perpetual foul mood for days/weeks. Work stress has really gotten to me. So much so that I’m actually thinking about other positions available elsewhere. The shit storm never ends. Things are constantly breaking. I’m getting texts and emails and phone calls all hours of the day and night. I am on-call 24/7 and since we started implementing Wide Orbit, the trouble calls have been coming fast and furious. FML.

29JAN2019 - Obstructive Sleep Apnea is the diagnosis. Bad for the heart. Causes depression, irritability, erectile dysfunction. Not so bad on the list of diseases. This is like North Dakota Salsa: extra mild. The GI doctor called to tell me my colon looked good. No cancer, no polyps, no sign of Celiac Disease. So why do I have a fatty liver? Why do I have signs of anemia? I did my week 3 weigh-in for the EDGE six-week challenge, and I’m at 179.6 lbs and 15.6% body fat. Depressing to know that I’m halfway through this challenge and have only lost 1% of my body fat. My goal is to be under 10%. I am confident that I can get there, but it won’t be easy [it wasn’t, and I didn’t “get there”]

29JAN2018 - So much to catch up on. Birthday weekend was great. Went bowling and ice skating with Leah. Ate at Chicago Diner. Wore my crazy kimono-print satin pants, danced at the Whistler, had delicious brunch of Fruity Pebbles french toast. I’ve been teaching some very popular yoga classes recently. I had 25 people in Meditation, 45 in Vinyasa, and 26 in Yin. Larissa [my supervisor] was stoked!

And the BIG NEWS: last Monday, my boss Mike Tompary showed up outside my cubicle and asked me to sit down with him in Don Mueller’s old office. He shut the door as I took a seat, and I felt very nervous right away. He asked “Do you still want the Chief Engineer position?” I had expressed interest in it months ago, but we had pivoted to other candidates, outside hires, and it had been so long since we had discussed it that I was shocked to hear him ask about it. I doubted my own abilities, and told him so: “Well, yes, if everyone here is on board with my shortcomings…” and he said he had just gotten out of a meeting with the station Program Director David, and Network Director Tony and they were on board. Our interim CEO Reese had promised to approve it, “…so, if you want the job, it’s yours!” I stood up and extended my hand, with a big smile on my face. I am Chief Engineer of WFMT. I can hardly believe it. Mike said Al Skierkiwicz would be delaying his retirement for a little while longer so he could show me some of the ropes, and encouraged me to take copious notes as I shadowed him. I am feeling like a rock star lately. Yoga classes going well, work is progressing in a great way, I am in love with a beautiful, brilliant woman. Feeling strong and balanced.

29JAN2017 - My godmother Julie’s son Spencer passed away yesterday. Cancer. He was younger than me, and had two or three young kids. I was following Julie’s Caring Bridge posts, and learned that he had hung on longer than the doctors expected, but it’s devastating to read how such a strong, smart, talented, good man can be decimated by an illness.

Grandma Sauvageau is not doing well either. Her 94th birthday was spent in the hospital. She had taken a fall at home and broke her hip. Lacey visited her at the hospital on her birthday and reported to me that she doesn’t look good. Said Grandma wasn’t aware of her surroundings and looked very weak. Doris flew in from Denver on Friday and Dad flew home from Arizona yesterday. Doris posted a few pictures on Facebook of her kids visiting her. Grandma was awake, but there was worry on the faces of my aunts and uncles in the room with her. I am an imbecile—I spent $1500 on that cheap Chinese double-bass on Friday, when in reality, I should be saving for moments like these.

29JAN2016 - There is time enough for everything, if we allow ourselves to utilize that precious commodity in the correct way. I am feeling very free this weekend after months and months with seemingly no time for my self. This will be my first weekend alone in my new apartment. Today and tomorrow are for me, aside from the small detail of recording WFMT’s Introductions this morning with a 16-year-old violist. I’m excited to get my home in order: do some laundry, unpack a box or two, arrange things, clean and clear out my space. I’ll go for a 6-mile run tonight, then bike tomorrow, get a haircut tomorrow afternoon and maybe take Malin’s Hot Vinyasa class at Lifetime. I have to figure out what the hell to do with my piano though. It kills me that the movers had to leave it outside! In January! At least it’s under the eaves of the detached garage.

Addendum, later that day: Currently sitting at the laundromat down the block because I don’t yet have keys to the laundry room in the basement at my new place. Feeling fried from lack of sleep and ready to pass out already. I shouldn’t have agreed to work this morning, spinning my tires there, wondering why in the world I agreed to give up half my day (a full quarter of my weekend) for net zero. When will you learn it’s okay to say “no”?

29JAN2015 - I have been allowing myself time to “space out” and be bored. My days have been incredibly busy this past month, and I am proud of what I have accomplished. I’ve been giving myself time to work out, time for yoga, allowing copious amounts of time for work. I do feel like I have been spending far too much time on the internet. I miss writing, making music, and social time with friends, but I am reading more. I have been voluntarily unemployed now since the end of September, so I can devote my time to freelance recording gigs and my yoga teacher training. Working on my own schedule was challenging at first, working only about 4h/day for the first week, then 5h/day for the next two weeks, 6 a day for two weeks and I’m now up to 7 to 9 hours each day. I never imagined I could hold myself accountable for this much work. Last week was a little harder as I tried to alter my routine from mornings to afternoons so I could work out and do yoga in the mornings.

I had birthday dinner with Jack Brett last Monday. Among other things, we discussed Jess. I wanted to know if she was doing okay, and he confirmed that she was, but said she was hurt to see some photos of V and me on Facebook. Hard to believe it’s been a year since she moved out. Jack said she is doing better now, and even dating someone who Jack likes, but wasn’t sure how serious they are, stating that they made an arrangement to date “only one day out of every seven.” Interesting…

29JAN2014 -

29JAN2013 - [Facebook post] This ain't no cuppa Joe. It's Cafe Sauvageau. Step 1: Select only the finest Julius Meinl Costa Rican Tarrazu beans. Step 2: Hand grind using mortar & pestle. Step 3: Boil purified water. Step 4: French press that bad boy. Step 5: Commence workday [8 Likes]

29JAN2012 - Mixing some of the Tiger Cry songs today. We’ve been recording this album for weeks in my spare bedroom. Loving the “bee” sound I was able to get from manically strumming a soft percussion mallet along the low strings of my upright piano.

29JAN2011 -

29JAN2010 - My first-ever solo classical recording gig is today with International Chamber Artists!! $75! SWEET!

29JAN2005 - I shall return to the habit of generating my thoughts into this journal. Much has occurred since last I bothered about these pages, but I will come to that in time. We are 16 days into a six and a half month voyage around the world, and July 29th seems like eons afield.

I have been pressured into qualifying ESWS [Enlisted Surface Warfare Specialist] by my chain-of-command. I have been all but promised an “early promote” evaluation if I indeed qualify by March 1st. February shall prove to be either a rude awakening or a new and good beginning for me. Time will tell. We have a list of prospective port calls — all subject to the whims of Mother Navy: Guam in February. Singapore in March. Dubai in April. Bahrain in May. Dubai again in June. Italy in June. England, Florida, and Norfolk, VA in July. Will be interested to see if this route goes as planned (which I doubt) or is altered drastically.

I’ve been planning a budget for music instrument purchases. If I continue to be paid my BAH [Basic Allowance for Housing], I will be able to save quite a bit, of course with that list of ports above, certain purchases may be delayed. I purchased a Takamine 12-string acoustic guitar last Christmas. Mom and Dad just received a brand-new Rickenbacker 4003 bass that I ordered on Jan 6, bringing my tally to:

• Dean Exotica Acoustic Guitar - red flame maple, 2000

• Danelectro Hodad Electric Guitar - gold sparkle, 2002

• Epiphone El Capitan Elec/Acou 5-String Bass - ebony, 2003

• Fender Banjo - natural, 2004

• Carvin LPF70 Fretless Elec Bass - blueburst, custom, 2004

• Takamine 12-string Acoustic Guitar - natural, 2004

• Fender Rhodes Electric Piano, 2004

• Rickenbacker 4003 Elec Bass - jetglo, 2005

[denotes that I still own these in 2025]

Planned purchases for this deployment include:

• Epiphone Casino Electric Guitar ($660)

• Musicman Stingray Electric Bass ($1200)

• Digidesign 002 recording interface + ProTools recording software ($2200)

• Fender American Telecaster ($880)

• Ampeg tube bass amplifier ($1500)

[denotes that I purchased these items during this deployment]

I would also like to get an Apple laptop with the ultimate goal having a fully-functional home recording studio paid for and functioning by the time I’m out of the Navy in January, 2007. Less than two years from now, thank Christ.

Several weeks ago, Tim sent me my journal from our previous deployment. I am beginning to fear that it has been lost in the mail. That would be a dreadful scenario, because it contained several musical riffs that I have been working on, poetry that hasn’t yet been transferred to my blue spiral-bound book, and my Westpac 2003 journal in it’s entirety. I do hope it arrives soon.

29JAN1999 - The Malady of One

Introspectively, I wait together,

lessons given, lessons learned,

striving on despite my failures.

Hoping hopelessly her hand inspects the inner,

icicled, whitened walls of winter.

Is the interest homogenic,

hear me?

With she out me, I mean—

I get confused, and

and, I dedicate this simple despair to her

with an aftertaste of embryonic leather.

Apple silence sliced symmetrically,

carefully careless candied comments.

Did you—me—some justice make,

or did I—you—your virtues take?

Rambunctious play reinvents the day:

obnoxious Pythagoras floor-falling.

Irrepressible instincts acknowledging

your presence as the square root of a^2 and b^2.

I just want to die in your embrace,

is that too much to ask?

Allow me to perish near your face,

I’m getting down to bronze tax.

Intestinal infantile blue lights

switch syrupy strength in you,

Your offer of outward exposure

fits into my technicolor torture.

January 2025 Recap!

Happy New Year, dear readers.

How long do you leave your holiday decorations up? On a New Year’s Eve walk with Churro, I counted several limp Frasier Firs piled up next to garbage cans. I heard on the radio that January 6 is one “traditional date” for taking down the Christmas tree and removing the lights from the eaves. My birthday is January 7, so in our home, Mom always left the decorations up until January 8, at my insistence. This year, we took ours down on the 18th. I always prefer to hold out longer than most, because winter is just so damn long. The darkness is so damn long. Christmas and the New Year come so early in the winter. What’s the rush to remove all the lovely decor?

RIP Christmas tree

For me, this month has been marred by trepidation. Trepidation about the state of our country and of the world. Trepidation about Mother Nature. Trepidation about social media and about AI. And—least importantly of all—trepidation about writing.

Social media use is on the decline it seems. At least in the circles I run in, the Meta-verse has become too odious to endure. Hear hear. It’s about fucking time. For someone who posts as often as I do (which is on the order of twice a day!), I am at last abandoning Facebook and Instagram. Threads was initially lauded as a viable alternative to X, but I am already tired of it’s vacuous algorithm. The fate of TikTok seemed sealed for a moment, but I’ve never understood the attraction, nor had any interest in creating an account. I spent some time this month starting up a Bluesky account and a Substack—which I’ve been putting off for too long. And I’ve been communicating with other friends on Discord and Signal. My only reason for remaining on the old-fashioned Facebooks and Instagrams was to keep in touch with my friends and family. Those platforms have obviously become less about connection and more about unchecked aggression, anonymous trolling, and an obscene amount of marketing for sub-standard consumer goods. YOU know what I’m talking about. Part of the reason I wanted to start this website was to spend less time on social media, and ideally, bring some of you along with me. (Thanks for reading this, by the way)

Speaking of my Substack, I posted a few older pieces there: a poem from 2022, a flash fiction piece from 2021, this prose piece from the same year, and a relatively new poem.

With the inauguration and all, I felt it fitting to post this Propagandhi song which I covered/recorded in 2020. It describes the gravitas our “leaders” should experience, but too often do not.

Nipples-deep

>>

Nipples-deep >>

Running? Yes. I’m nipples-deep in training for a spring 50k, which my Trail Pushers Alysha and Tommy dragooned upon me. Seriously, I’ve been needing the nudge to sign up for something longer than a 10k, so I was grateful to hear that they were signing up and urged me to join them. It will be my first ultra since Tommy and I ran the Grand Canyon in 2019. The 2025 Ice Age 50k takes place May 10, two weeks after Leah runs the Big Sur Marathon.

2019

Another race that has been on my radar since 2018 is the Superior Trail Race. This one takes place north of Duluth, through scenic Crosby Manitou State Park, up through the Caribou Highlands and finishing in Lutsen. I haven’t run a 50-miler since September 2019, but I put my name in the hat for the lottery. On 1/18 I was notified of my acceptance to the race(!), which takes place September 6. Looks like a boatload of training coming up in 2025.

In keeping with the theme of trepidation, I applied for acceptance at a writing retreat here in our fair state. The Tofte Lake Center hosts two week-long residencies—one in June and one in September. It’s been a decades-long dream to spend time in nature, writing—without the distractions of work or social media (see above). I won’t be notified one way or the other until May 1.

I have also been working on a long-form essay to post here, dealing with my somewhat traumatic New Year’s Eve 2016. However, I’m not sure I am ready to share this one with the world yet.

I took myself to see a $5 matinee showing of Nosferatu on my birthday. I highly recommend it. I was particularly struck by the sound design as well as the camera-work and lighting. The last scene is beautiful and will haunt your dreams.

I’ve also been shooting film, and playing with double-exposures. Here’s one of my favorites that came from processing my most recent roll:

Frozen Mississippi / Christmas lights

While I haven’t written much, I have made some bonkers videos over the past couple of months. I bought a 35mm / f0.95 lens last summer, Leah gave me a sweet little Aputure light for my birthday, and I’ve mainly been filming these abominations in order to get some post-production reps on both DaVinci Resolve and ProTools. Incidentally, I HATE shooting and editing 9:16—another symptom of our society’s hopeless addiction to TikTok and our devices. Make Landscape Sexy Again!

One clear highlight for the month was a visit from four dear Chicago friends: Tommy, Margaret, Alysha, and Chris. They were here in the Twin Cities for the annual Pond Hockey Tournament on Lake Nokomis. Tommy and I went on a couple of runs, wandered around the Como Conservatory and Zoo for the first time, and saw Frank Black at First Ave (Tommy’s first time there). We all cheered Chris’s hockey team, the Skateful Dead, and drank Labatt 1% over 18” of frozen lake ice. It’s always a special occasion when we can get together, along with our Saint Paul friends, Peter and Kristen, but this visit deserved a proper toasting, so we had cocktails at Gori Gori Peku (a Japanese whiskey bar), followed by a stunning meal at Owamni. I am still doubled over in pain from laughing, which is typical whenever this group assembles. 

With all the trepidation in our individual lives and in the world, it’s nice to recall that spending time with loved ones can ease the burden—however fleetingly. Until next time, try to find peaceful moments and stay well, friends.

Owamni! Thank you, Lacey!!

dying

Unhoused Woman Encounters Micropenis Energy Outside the Golden Nugget

The sun has yet to set and

here you are, slurring your words.

Your girlfriend is too, but

she is savvy enough

to distance herself from you.

She paces half a block away,

sweaty, arms crossed.

She wanders near and calls

your name, Tad. Why don’t you

leave her be, Tad? Sleep it off,

Tad. Let’s bang it out, Tad.

(Better yet, don’t, Tad.) What

daggers did this dirty-faced,

tattered-trousered grandmother

sling, that sliced you so, Tad?

Was it her cabbage-scented

perfume which seduced you

to bray—swine-like—into

the cheeks of this “Fucking Hag”?

You tower above her, your

fatback moist, your jowls pink

from lack of air to your

middling brain, veins in your neck

and hamhocks bulging. Did she

take your last twenty bucks at

the Blackjack table? Did she

refill all your empties

at the casino bar? Did she

run away with the butcher

when you were six? (And what if

she did? If your dad was

the bore that you are, Tad, I

would too.) And what’s wrong with

these passers-by, who just pass by

you, casting their gaze aside—

myself included?

Annie’s News

Annie’s fingers were sinewy, overcooked chicken wings which delicately stirred seven sugar cubes into her roadside diner Folgers. She lifted the mug to herpes-scarred lips which slithered past blackened, crooked teeth and away from mottled gums. Annie’s lashless, pinpoint eyes—wide set in that mangy, misshapen skull—were slivers of cool coal jutting from a jagged canyon of cheekbones. A stench of curdled milk mixed with dumpster cabbage wafted across the table as she spoke. Her slurping, sucking, wheezing words slammed into me with the force of a Mack truck T-boning a nun: “Baby, we’re pregnant!”

I’ve never been happier.

It Happens

Here, your mind is a wide open prairie on a smooth spring morning. This is your favorite place: there are no distractions, no work, no phone, no music; only momentum.

You exchange pleasantries with another swimmer as you wade in, knee-deep. “How is it?” You ask her.

“Nice this morning. Not too cold. Not wavy.” She bends an arm back to unzip her wetsuit. “Cops pulled a body out just as I was arriving.”

“What? You’re kidding.” You stand stunned, heels sinking into the silty bottom.

She shrugs. “It happens. Enjoy your swim.”

The city slouches heavily on one shoulder. The low commotion of early morning traffic noise, like a fog that never dissipates, is punctured by the roar of motorcycles or the lamentation of an ambulance. Engines and rubber and tons of steel clatter and rumble along Lake Shore Drive, an eight-lane highway that spoons the shoreline. 

On your other shoulder, the soft, quiet pull of a gauzy sky. Lake Michigan is a slate flag undulating in a brisk breeze. The head of a golden retriever glides closer to shore, stick firmly clenched in jaw. Mute sailboats bob at the edge of the earth, like opal pyramids pointing towards Heaven. The vast maw of the lake sucks the sound from the city.

The balance is off.

You wade deeper, pulling the drawstring of your wetsuit zipper up your spine. You fasten the velcro tab at the nape of your neck. You dip your hot pink latex swim cap into the lake and open it up, turn it inside out, then stretch it over your head. The brightly-colored cap highlights your whereabouts for boats and for the lifeguards who will arrive later when the beaches begin to crowd with vacationing families and suburban teens.

Waist-deep, you bend your knees and stretch the rubber collar of your wetsuit to let the lake in. The cold water shocks your flesh. Your heart skips two beats. You spit into your goggles, rinse them, and suction them to your face, inhale deeply and thrust forward. Your arms crawl, pulling you through the lake, legs kick rhythmically, toes pointed to maximize efficiency. Your heart rate spikes. Five strokes, breathe—you open your mouth at the corner to keep from swallowing a wave. Five strokes, breathe—the odd intervals keep you looking at alternating sides. 

To your left is the steel-reinforced concrete lake wall, slimy and barnacled. Above it, the Lakefront Path: an artery often clogged by bicyclists, runners, sightseeing tourists, and sauntering downtown workers staring at their phones. Beyond that is Lake Shore Drive and seven-figure condos with floor-to-ceiling windows which glint in the glow of a rising sun. In the afternoon, the skyscrapers cast deep shadows into this stretch of lake. To your right, an empty expanse of harbor. “The Playground” will soon fill with idling powerboats, piloted by spoiled north shore kids. They wear floral-print board shorts and monokinis, and spend hours sipping Old Style or White Claw, flashing toothy selfies for Instagram.

Most days, the lake is cloudy and you can’t see five feet. Here, disaster lurks. Your head is up more than down, looking around for stronger swimmers who might barrel towards you through the din like an eighteen-wheeler rounding a switchback on a narrow mountain pass. You watch for drunks on Sea-Doos, veering too close to shore. You imagine the aftermath: concussed and drowning, no lifeguards nearby to save you. Far-fetched, sure, but possible—it happens. 

Today though, the lake is crystalline. In the close hug of your wetsuit, through foggy goggles, you see the downed light post resting on the bottom. You wonder what kind of car wreck launches a light post that far: careening over a guardrail and past a sloping concrete beach, fully fifty yards from Lake Shore Drive. You shiver through a cold pocket and try to regain your rhythm—five strokes, breathe, five strokes, breathe. Garbage litters the rocks, twenty feet below your nose. You see shapeless plastic and metallic things, sun-faded and sand-covered; beer bottles, soda cans, and an entire park district trash can. You spy a solitary fish sucking between stones and debris. It’s a sallow and pitted creature, not even worth a second glance. You become tangled in a fishnet of weeds, so you pause briefly, treading water as you remove them from your face and between your fingers. Your wetsuit buoys you; you bob at the surface like the beacon that marks your turnaround point. You think again about the body. It happens.

The waves push and pull. You gain speed. Your arms are tiring, shoulders burning with the effort. Your neck is raw where you mismatched the velcro. You find your rhythm. You no longer need to count your strokes to breathe. It happens: your body remembers. It’s like writing a letter to an old friend, or fingering a C-major scale on your junior high trumpet. 

A pair of swimmers pass you on their way back to shore. You envy the efficiency of their stroke, the power in their arms. You rock gently in their wake. You sneak a peek back—they’re already disappearing into the distance. 

You crawl towards the marker, the furthest you’ve made it this season. The waves are getting choppy as you take a wide turn around the beacon and head towards the beach. Eight hundred meters down, eight hundred to go.

Like a calf without gold

Like gold without blood

Like blood without creamy fat

Like fat without salt

Like salt without a shaker

Like a Shaker without a psalm

Like psalms without palms

Like palms of plaited brass

Like a brass band without a battlefield

Like a field without cattle

Like a battle without fire

Like fire without air

Like air without the soft slurp

of purple lungs

Like lungs without ribs

Like ribs without tips

Like a tip without a top

Like a top-hat without a song

Like songs without words

Like words without starlight

Like starlight without 

the velvet-curtained dark

Like curtains drown the dawn

Like dawn without wings

Like wings without a tail

Like a tail without the comet

Like a comet without ice

Like ice without cream

Like cream without the cow

Like a cow without her calf

bleeding in the grass

A folk healer tends to a sick cow in Muurame, Finland 1929

I haven’t written much (poetry or otherwise) lately. This poem dates from late 2022. I got a new job in Saint Paul, so I packed up a U-Haul with a few house plants and musical instruments and moved in with Leah’s Dad in the suburbs, while Leah finished packing up our place in Chicago. This poem comes from that period; while I was eager to begin a new job and explore a new city, I was certainly missing Leah, missing my friends, missing Chicago. It’s a poem of love and loss and hope.

Kids All Over Hell

Shrewsbury Sentinel Factory children's party (Geoff Charles, 1950)

So anyway, we drove over

to that main drag there

and there’s a bank

and well everything looks closed

and where in the Sam hell?

We’re in the middle of nowhere.

We walk past the VFW

I thought we were goin to the VFW

and we get to some little shop,

like an individual

an individual individualized 

little shop

—a bakery!—

Well, we still don’t know 

what the hell’s goin on.

We walk into that shop and

BOOM!—

The lights turn on

and there’s all kindsa people,

must’ve been twenty,

twenty-five people there—

your sister’s friends,

Adam called all of ‘em.

And kids all over Hell,

and there was a smorgasbord.