Eggs and Sausage

Cowboy Up!

2010-06-29T15:13:00.003-06:00

Live Nude Girls

2009-12-16T18:13:00.002-07:00

Robot down!

2009-12-13T14:53:00.001-07:00

Uh oh

2009-11-19T11:51:00.002-07:00

Wounded Knee

2009-11-16T11:06:00.004-07:00

Scans from long ago and far away

2009-11-06T12:07:00.002-07:00

Sideline

2009-09-21T14:41:00.003-06:00

Hurdle

2009-08-27T22:00:00.003-06:00

Post 22

2009-08-21T13:24:00.003-06:00

Chippy

2009-08-19T21:09:00.002-06:00

What The Heck

2009-08-19T14:35:00.003-06:00

Not Obama, Talabani

2009-08-14T11:21:00.003-06:00

Man on

2009-08-02T23:41:00.003-06:00

2009 Usera Cup

2009-08-02T17:02:00.008-06:00

Off the Gray Line

2009-07-30T13:21:00.004-06:00

Brick and Mortar I

2009-07-19T10:49:00.006-06:00

Jolly Llamas I

2009-07-18T10:00:00.004-06:00

Fine music in Art Alley Thursday nights. More shots here.

Track-O-Rama

2009-06-05T21:14:00.003-06:00

The Sheiks of Shake

2009-05-04T09:13:00.004-06:00

Some band in some ballroom in Hollywood in the early 80's. Check out the elastic straps on the lead singer's glasses.

Whisky A Go Go - 1982

2009-04-30T14:08:00.004-06:00

Dig this - the Blasters.

The shots I should have used

2009-04-08T09:47:00.015-06:00

Third Floor

2009-04-01T17:59:00.012-06:00

A few shots from this past session.

Under The Dome I

2009-03-26T09:30:00.008-06:00

Spray

2009-03-24T20:53:00.004-06:00

Invert

2009-03-24T18:20:00.005-06:00

Again

2009-03-24T17:39:00.004-06:00

Obamicons

2009-03-23T19:44:00.004-06:00

Out of Sight

2009-03-22T22:15:00.004-06:00

Endless Winter

2009-03-22T14:02:00.005-06:00

Art

2008-11-10T17:32:00.004-07:00

Think what you will about the election. I think this is pretty cool.

CONGRESS TO COUNTRY: DROP DEAD

2008-10-01T06:57:00.005-06:00

“Some will feel very virtuous about having voted against Wall Street and then turn around and find their constituents, generally, paid a huge price for that vote."

Senator Robert Bennett, Republican of Utah

Anarchy

2008-09-13T16:15:00.003-06:00

Grotto

2008-09-06T19:19:00.001-06:00

Snow White

2008-09-06T16:54:00.002-06:00

Comin' Through!

2008-09-05T16:00:00.001-06:00

Header!

2008-08-28T16:36:00.001-06:00

Want it

2008-08-28T14:28:00.004-06:00

Incoming!

2008-08-23T22:24:00.011-06:00

On a sunny day.

2008-08-11T19:17:00.008-06:00

Those cats were fast as lightning.

2008-08-09T18:52:00.007-06:00

No Chance

2008-08-09T16:11:00.004-06:00

Chance

2008-08-09T09:55:00.007-06:00

Skywalker

2008-08-08T17:40:00.001-06:00

Funny Kid

2008-08-08T15:46:00.007-06:00

I spent a week in Newark one day.

2008-07-17T08:01:00.003-06:00

Celebrating Independence

2008-07-17T07:54:00.003-06:00

Brilliant

2008-07-15T07:31:00.003-06:00

Pope-A-Palooza

2008-04-25T18:08:00.001-06:00

A neat slice of backstage Papal life (and a Seder!).

I’m green enough to grow compost

2008-03-30T14:02:00.004-06:00

The Spectator
Jeremiah M. Murphy

Another St. Patrick’s Day has passed with me wearing colors not green. I’m a “wearin’ o’ the green” grinch.

I can’t say why exactly. I guess I’m so Irish, I figure the actual green attire might be too much.

That’s a rare case of restraint - usually for me, more is better.

Take compost for example: I’ve had a compost pile since the spring of 1994. Every spring I’ve been sober I’ve composted.

If you look up compost in the dictionary you’ll see the noun defined as a mixture of decaying organic matter. The verb is defined as putting materials together to make that mixture.

To me, composting goes much further than that – I compost to an end result that is not a mere mixture of decaying organic matter. It’s fully decayed organic matter. It’s dirt.

I compost used things – leaves, grass clippings, fruit rinds, and vegetable rinds into a useful thing.

Typically, I’m not much more “green” in life than I am on St. Patrick’s Day. I don’t spend any time worrying about the size of my carbon footprint. I burn fossil fuels at a high rate (see previous column re: traffic stops). But, I do like to compost. I like making dirt. It’s cheap, it’s easy, and it produces a valuable product in which I can grow tomatoes.

Tomatoes are important because, if there were no tomatoes there would be no salsa and, if there was no salsa, we’d have corn chips backing up on us.

A week ago yesterday was Holy Saturday (Sabbatum Sanctum). Holy Saturday is the Lord's Day of rest, for on that day Christ's body lay in His tomb. So, of course, I was outside working.

We were preparing the house for Easter and that seemed like a good excuse to clean up my compost pile and vegetable garden.

I tore out last year’s growth from the garden and worked it into the compost pile as visions of heirloom tomatoes danced in my head.

I favor heirloom tomatoes. These are old, old varieties of tomatoes that have not been cross-bred. They are not hybrids.

Most hybrid tomatoes have been designed to be uniform in color, skin thickness, disease resistance, and growing time – traits that serve commercial tomato producers.

Conversely, the key trait in heirloom tomatoes is flavor. Flavor at the expense of uniformity.

I’m stepping into Cathie Draine’s territory a bit here. But, I think Cathie would agree – No tomatoes are tastier than heirloom tomatoes.

Of all the heirloom tomatoes, I really like the Brandywine variety. Brandywines are great, lumpy, purplish brutes that are the tastiest (and, arguably, the ugliest) of the heirloom tomato lot.

Extreme tomatoes, but wonderfully so.

My affinity for certain vegetables doesn’t come at the expense of meat. I love red meat. To paraphrase the comedian Jim Gaffigan, I don’t know what they do to that stuff when they process it. But, it is DELICIOUS!

One of our number here at Murphyland doesn’t eat meat.

Well, she eats meat if it’s from a creature that swims. But, she won’t eat meat from creatures that walk or fly.

Chicken of the Sea – yes. Chicken of the barnyard – no.

Except . . . except in certain conditions.

She will eat pheasant if it came from the wild.

That is, she will not eat meat that was processed or inspected by professionals at a licensed processing facility. But, she will eat pheasant that was shot and fell to earth in a dung-covered pasture before it was processed by her husband and his buddy with a kitchen knife and a pair of tin snips out in the alley.

Because that’s natural.

Maybe. Unless you’re the pheasant. Not so natural to him.

I didn’t partake in the wearin’ o’ the green this spring. But, this summer I will be doing the mowin’ o’ the green to provide grass clippings for the turnin’ o’ the compost pile to nurture the tomato garden to supply the salsa for the dippin’ o’ the chips while we do the grillin’ o’ the steaks (and fish).

Jeremiah M. Murphy lives in Rapid City. Contact him at murphy@rushmore.com

(Edited version of a column originally published in the March 30th, 2008 Rapid City Journal)

‘Why’ questions offer opportunity for verbal judo

2008-03-13T08:51:00.002-06:00

The Spectator
Jeremiah M. Murphy

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because.”

“Because why?”

“Because I said so.”

“Why do you get to say so?”

“Because I’m your father.”

“Why?”

“Because, long ago, before you were born, I fell in love with your mother.”

“What?”

“Ha! Gotcha!”

I don’t answer “why” questions from my kids anymore.

I’ll answer “who” questions, “what” questions, “where” questions, “when” questions, and “how” questions (I love “how” questions!). But I will not answer “why” questions.

“Why?” you ask.

I shouldn’t answer that. But, okay, just this once.

I don’t answer “why” questions because, unlike Snickers, no answer to a “why” question satisfies.

I cannot remember a time (when I would answer a Murphy kid’s “why” question) when my answer to a “why” question would result in said kid replying “Oh! Okay!”

Rather, “why” questions only beget more “why” questions (see above).

It’s fruitless. If you’re a kid, it’s great entertainment. If you’re a parent, not so much.

The police are big on “why” questions. I try not to answer those either.

Police ask questions like: “Do you know why I stopped you?”

Now, that’s a loaded “why” question.

If I answer “Because I was speeding,” or “Because I rolled through the stop sign back there like it was a yield sign,” I’m done. Case closed. It’s off to the hoosegow with me.

But, if I answer “I don’t know.” I’m just lying - and that’s no good.

I don’t want to give the impression I spend a lot of time producing my license, registration, and proof of insurance for police. But, I’ve been stopped a few times. And believe me; I pretty much always know why I’m being stopped.

Once I tried not answering a policeman’s question.

Several years ago I was driving through construction on 5th Street. I wanted to make a left turn at St. Joe. But, a sign said “No Left Turn”. No one was coming from either direction. So, I turned left.

Moments later I was serenaded by a motorcycle patrolman’s siren.

“Did you see the ‘No Left Turn’ sign?” he asked.

I had two choices – tell the truth and effectively write myself a ticket, or lie and have that nagging at me.

But, instead, I went with door number “C”. I said nothing. I just looked at him.

He repeated his question. I repeated my dumb look.

“Did you hear me?” he asked. “Yes.” I answered.

“So, why don’t you answer my question?”

“I’m just not going to answer that question. Ticket me if you have to, but I’m not going to answer that question.

He was not pleased. He was really not pleased. He really let me know he was really not pleased. But, for whatever reason, he didn’t give me a ticket. He gave me a warning instead.

Weird, but effective.

Now, more and more police are using a technique called “verbal judo” to better communicate with miscreants like me. An element of verbal judo is to avoid questions like “Do you know why I stopped you?” or “Didn’t you see that sign?” - Questions that hinder rather than enhance communication during traffic stops.

I received a verbal judo chop one recent evening while driving down West Boulevard. For some reason stop signs are popping up on the boulevard like tulips in spring. On the evening in question, I may have rolled past one of those new stop signs without stopping.

My alleged error was pointed out to me by a Rapid City police officer. He didn’t ask me to guess why he had stopped me. No, he told me his name and he told me that he stopped me because I didn’t stop at the stop sign.

Ouch.

I was tempted to ask him why the city has erected a picket fence of stop signs up and down the boulevard. Why do cross streets that produce about 1/500th of the traffic that travels West Boulevard now have four way stops?

But, the kids were with me and it would have set a bad example.

Happily, Chloe and Dylan weren’t asking me “why” questions just then.

Unhappily, they were giving me advice. “You should have stopped back there.” Dylan told me.

Why would he say something like that?

Jeremiah M. Murphy lives in Rapid City. Contact him at murphy@rushmore.com

(Originally published in the March 9th, 2008 Rapid City Journal)

Building A Religion

2008-03-07T22:20:00.003-07:00

Scenes From The Hard Bench Caucus

2008-03-04T08:57:00.007-07:00

Mom’s sacrifices carry on tradition

2008-02-03T07:29:00.001-07:00

The Spectator
Jeremiah M. Murphy

“Hey Dad, it’s Hunter. The ski patrol here at Terry thinks we should have Dylan’s arm X-rayed. It’s kind of swollen.”

“Kind of swollen?”

“Yeah, he had a pretty good wreck on his snowboard.”

This call from our oldest son regarding our youngest son came a few weeks ago.

“Kind of swollen” translated into broken radius and chipped ulna.

At the emergency room that night, Dylan’s fingers were pinched into a medieval device and the fracture in his radius was “reduced”. Dylan’s arm is healing in the shape it was before he fell off a straight box while attempting a front side board slide. (I have no idea what that means – Dylan dictated the terms to me. I’m trying to appeal to a younger demographic.)

Dylan’s break reminded me of a voicemail I received six years ago this month –

“Hi Dad, it’s Chloe. I broke my arm today. I love you! Bye!”

That was from our then six year old daughter on the first night of my first session as a lobbyist in Pierre. Chloe had broken her arm at the school playground that day.

My wife Kaia had agreed to do the work of two parents while I spent two months of Mondays to Fridays in Pierre as a contract lobbyist. Three kids aged five, six, and thirteen added up to a lot of work. With one of those three in a cast – the work multiplied.

But Kaia handled it. She handled it with love, compassion, humor, and patience.

In succeeding years Kaia’s handled a lot, on her own, while I’ve been gone.

In seven sessions she’s handled the ER visits, doctor visits, nursing, bathing, and shirt-buttoning required of four broken arms. Three of those arms were broken while the kids were snowboarding (I suspect snowboarding was invented primarily as an economic development tool for orthopedic doctors.).

She’s also handled colds, homework, indoor soccer, tantrums, basketball, flu, piano, gymnastics, fights, violin, sick cats, broken pipes, and broken arms (did I mention broken arms?).

Kaia is the third generation of women so good they will support Murphy’s in the business of lobbying – Murphy’s who decamp to Pierre for two months each year to ply our trade in the House and Senate lobbies.

There wouldn’t have been any Murphy’s registered to lobby if it weren’t for three other names – McCue, Foye, and Anderson.

Beginning in 1933 my Grandmother, Merle (McCue) Murphy, sacrificed so my Grandfather could go to Pierre and lobby.

Things were different then – the trip by car to Pierre was made on narrow 1933 roads in 1933 (or older) cars. When my Dad visited his Dad in Pierre, it took two trains to complete the trip from Sioux Falls. But, one parent parenting four kids was just as tough as it is today.

Starting in 1959 my Mom, Mary Jean (Foye) Murphy, sacrificed so my Dad could go to Pierre and lobby.

Some things had changed – 1930’s cars and roads and passenger trains had been replaced by airline travel. But, the legislature still met for two months each session and one parent caring for three kids was just as demanding as ever.

Since 2002 my wife, Kaia (Anderson) Murphy, has sacrificed so I could go to Pierre and lobby.

Technology has advanced bringing faxes, cel phones, and laptop PCs to Pierre. But eight weeks of being the single parent of three kids is every bit as challenging for Kaia as it was for my Mom and for my Grandmother.

Mom’s kids are grown up and our kids have grown older so it’s easier in those homes than it was seven years ago or forty seven years ago. But, easier doesn’t mean easy. Mom and Kaia are still making the family sacrifices necessary when one partner wants to pursue a career in lobbying half way across the state.

Now Dylan has a neon orange cast on his arm. He’ll have that for a few more weeks. That means doctor appointments added to his Mom’s already full schedule.

Lucky for our family, Kaia’s willing to make that sacrifice while I’m in Pierre.

And, despite her overfull schedule, she still has time to think of me.

Why, just the other night, she suggested I try snowboarding.

Jeremiah M. Murphy lives in Rapid City. Contact him at murphy@rushmore.com

(Originally published in the February 3rd, 2008 Rapid City Journal)

Moon Over St. Martins

2008-01-26T17:51:00.000-07:00

Near Kunkle Flat

2008-01-26T17:07:00.001-07:00

Bloggers with shotguns, oh my!

2008-01-18T18:04:00.000-07:00

The Spectator
Jeremiah M. Murphy

“When you have shot one bird flying you have shot all birds flying. They are all different and they fly in different ways but the sensation is the same and the last one is as good as the first.”

Ernest Hemingway wrote that.

I think he got it right. I remember the first pheasant I shot and I remember the last, and I can’t tell the difference between the two. The anticipation, the thrill when a rooster flushes, making the shot, seeing the bird fold – for me, that’s every successful shot I’ve ever made. It’s an experience that doesn’t diminish with repetition.

The Sunday after this past Thanksgiving I was invited to hunt with a group of South Dakota bloggers and folks, like me, who comment on South Dakota blogs

This was quite a collection of hunters. The invited bloggers and commenters split, ideologically, very sharply between left and right. They then split further along various fault lines into several minor factions.

In the sometimes oxygen-deprived world that is the South Dakota “blogosphere”, comments and blog items among and between these folks are often pointed. Debate can be intense; name-calling can be creative and harsh; and feuds are fairly common.

So, what happens when you bring a bunch of verbal warriors together and arm them with shotguns?

They have a great time, that’s what happens. They get along just fine. To paraphrase the prophet Isaiah, “The bloggers hammered their keyboards into shotguns and their mice into shotgun shells. Blogger did not lift up keyboard against blogger . . . “

Thanks to the outstanding generosity of Nick and Mary Jo Nemec, we had land to walk and great food to eat.

That was the scene at what Todd Epp labeled the “Treaty of Holabird” hunt.

That’s not to say the group was quiet, we kept up a non-stop banter. But it was lighthearted compared to the back and forth often seen on the blogs.

Within that lively conversational whirl, there was still the matter of hunting.

Driving east that morning I had lowered my expectations to match the lateness of the season. I guessed there wouldn’t be too many birds. I’m not a great shot. Instead I anticipated and looked forward to the walking, the fresh air, and the company.

However, once we were in the fields, it was a different story.

As I walked a thin plowed strip with Kevin Woster, a bird got up a distance in front of us. He was flying fast, low, and away. I really didn’t have much of a shot but I took a shot anyway - no luck.

But, that rooster and that shot turned my day from a walk in the fields into a hunt. After that, I was all ears and eyes. I was Elmer Fudd. I was primed, I was ready. I was gonna get the wabbit (or, in this case, the pheasant).

Soon another rooster got up. This one was different from the first – a much better prospect. He flushed nice and slow with his body turned to present the best target. I slid off my safety as I raised my gun, and . . . “BANG!” . . . I heard Woster’s gun bark as Kevin nailed the bird.

Okay, maybe I was not so primed and ready as I imagined.

We worked our way from field to tree line to creek bed to bluff to field that afternoon. I had a few shots over the next couple hours but most of those birds were so high it was difficult to say if they were pheasants or the 2:42 flight out of Pierre. But still, I was hunting, and loving it

Then, late in the afternoon, another rooster flushed right in front of me and, as Woster was a ways away, I got him (the pheasant). Before I could collect that bird, a second rooster got up behind me and I had more good luck.

Hemmingway had it right - a successful shot, no matter the circumstances, is a common and welcome experience. Same goes for the company of good folks. By those standards, the “Treaty of Holabird” hunt was as good as hunting gets.

Jeremiah M. Murphy lives in Rapid City. Contact him at murphy@rushmore.com

(Originally published in the January 13th, 2008 Rapid City Journal)

Other Colors of the Faith Rainbow

2007-12-11T11:05:00.000-07:00

The Weekly Standard shares the notes from Mitt's recent religion speech.

Try Recruiting!

2007-12-09T08:06:00.001-07:00

The Spectator
Jeremiah M. Murphy

Tom Osborne, the interim athletic director at Nebraska, recently appointed himself interim head football coach of the ‘Huskers. Like Napoleon crowning himself Emperor of the French, Osborne crowned himself Emperor of Nebraska football.

The word from Harvard on the Plains was that Osborne would next place the Nebraska gubernatorial crown on his own head.

South Dakota National Guard troops were massing at the border. We were expecting trouble.

I’m kidding.

But, in fact, Osborne did temporarily appoint himself coach and for a very practical reason – recruiting. An athletic director may only meet with recruits on campus. But, a coach may visit recruits at their homes.

A lot of talk about recruiting in Rapid City lately – mostly negative. I think that’s a shame. I’m in favor of recruiting.

What prompts recent recruiting talk, recruiting allegations, and recruiting fears is the athletic success at St. Thomas More High School.

This seems odd to me. In the fall of 1975 I played football for O’Gorman High School (a Catholic high school in Sioux Falls, SD). Our team had a perfect record that season. Despite that, we didn’t hear allegations of recruiting. Not a word.

As a defensive tackle I played my part in that spotless record. I tackled everyone I could get my hands on. But, as I was 5’10 and 140 pounds, opposing linemen kept me from getting my hands on too many people.

Okay, I should clarify, our record was a perfect 0 – 8. It was unblemished by victory.

But, that’s the thing isn’t it? Until you win, no one pays any attention to how you put your team together. But, build a winning athletic program or three and the recruiting grumbling starts.

Steve Kueter, the A.D. at O’G, made the point in a comment to the Journal last spring. He said “From a private-school standpoint, if you’re not hearing about recruiting, then things probably aren’t going very well.”

Indeed.

So, as an STM fan, I take a goofy pride in the recruiting allegations. They are back-handed evidence of STM’s success.

STM’s students take the recruiting talk in stride. At a recent volleyball match STM kids traded good-natured cheers on the recruiting theme with opposing fans. When the match ended and St. Thomas More had prevailed, STM students chanted “Try recruiting!”

They’re right. Every school should try recruiting in the best sense of that term.

But, there’s a problem: “RECRUITMENT PROHIBITED”. That’s the title of Section 1. of Article IX of the South Dakota High School Activities Association Constitution And Bylaws. Not, “ILLEGAL INDUCEMENTS PROHIBITED”. Or “UNDUE INFLUENCE PROHIBITED”. But, “RECRUITMENT PROHIBITED”

It’s against the rules of the SDHSAA for a school to give or award scholarships, free tuition, free bus transportation, free school lunch, or any other inducements, directly or indirectly, to persuade a student to attend its school. Nor shall any other undue influence be exerted to persuade or inspire a prospective student to attend a particular school for athletic purposes.

An interesting side note here: Evidently it is permissible for undue influence to be exerted to persuade or inspire a prospective student to attend a particular school for artistic or academic purposes. You may put the hard sell on a kid to play trumpet, debate, or act; but not to play linebacker, shoot baskets, or run.

In any event, these rules do appear to permit an affirmative answer to the questions – “What can you tell me about your school? Should we send our kid there?”

If you ask me where to send your high school student I will try to recruit (except as that term is defined in Section 1. of Article IX of the South Dakota High School Activities Association Constitution And Bylaws) you to send that student to the high school my kids attend. I’ll try to do that because I think it’s a terrific school.

So, if someone goes to STM because they were recruited (except as that term is defined in Section 1. of Article IX of the South Dakota High School Activities Association Constitution And Bylaws) great!

Good schools deserve to be promoted through constructive recruiting. If we support that kind of recruiting, and support school programs, academic and athletic, worthy of that kind of recruiting, everyone benefits.

Beats 0 – 8.

(Originally published in the December 9th, 2007 Rapid City Journal)

Snappies

2007-12-07T17:59:00.000-07:00

Evel Dies

2007-11-30T14:42:00.000-07:00

Tom Osborne - Líder Máximo

2007-11-29T11:06:00.000-07:00

The Omaha Weird Harold is reporting "Osborne is interim head coach"

Per the WH - "The 70-year-old interim athletic director appointed himself . . . as interim head coach."

Wow! Looks like a Hugo Chavez/Moammar Khadafi/Fidel Castro “Ruler for Life” career path for Don Thomás.

Word from Harvard on the Plains is Don Thomás will next name himself University President then place the gubernatorial crown on his own head over at that goofy “Penis on the Prairie” state capital building down there.

South Dakota National Guard troops are massing at the border. We’re expecting trouble.

“We should have shotguns for this kind of deal.” - Samuel L. Jackson, Pulp Fiction

2007-11-28T17:04:00.000-07:00

And shotguns we had. That's me above with Todd Epp and Todd's son Matt at the first annual SD Blogger's Hunt. The hunt was generously and graciously sponsored by Nick and Mary Jo Nemec.

People are wondering how such a diverse group of bloggers and commenters could coexist while armed. In fact, we all got along quite well as we walked and hunted together. “The bloggers hammered their keyboards into shotguns and their mice into shotgun shells. Blogger did not lift up keyboard against blogger . . . “ to paraphrase the Book of Isaiah.

The camarade continued over chili. Blogged barbs will resume and that's fine. But, what a great bunch to get together for a day in the fields.

The hunt is well covered at Blogmore, Take It Outside (here and here and here), South Dakota War College, SD Watch (here and here), and Dakota Today.

* Photo (and headline idea) courtesy Kevin Woster.

T-bird

2007-11-20T10:40:00.000-07:00

The Spectator
Jeremiah M. Murphy

The snow fell straight down that November night in Sioux Falls. Street lights’ glow reflected back from low clouds and falling snow to create a storybook scene. It was so peaceful, so quiet.

On one neighborhood street car tires made a soft sound as they rolled through a turn in the snow. But then, suddenly, those tires made a different, “shushing” sound as they slipped their earthly bonds and slid sideways. The sliding tires came to rest only when the front fender of the car I was driving collided softly but surely with a parked car.

“Thunk!”

Oh! That’s not good.

Sliding into another car is bad enough. But, worse, sixteen year old me was driving my parent’s car. A great car – a sky blue, 1969 Thunderbird.

I put the car in park and got out to check the damage.

I know I put the car in park. Fill me with truth serum, give me a polygraph exam. I tell you I put that car in park.

I went around to where my front fender was nudged against the rear fender of the parked car. I leaned in close for a better look. There it was - a dent in the Thunderbird.

Nuts.

But, leaning in, peering at that T-bird, I saw something else: I saw the passenger side mirror. Then I saw the door handle. Then the rear fender rolled past.

The rear fender rolled past. The car was rolling downhill. THE CAR WAS ROLLING DOWNHILL!

And it rolled. It rolled diagonally down the street, jumped a curb, and caromed off a tree. It cut the corner and rolled off a curb, crossed a street, and up another curb . . .

And me? I ran after the car. Arms flailing, running haplessly in a pair of slick-soled cowboy boots through the new snow. The boys in Capa City would have laughed to see a Sioux Falls kid wearing cowboy boots.

At some point I got the driver’s door open. But still, the car rolled and I ran.

Finally, as the car rolled toward the front of a quiet house at the foot of the hill, I dove in and jammed the brake pedal down with my hands.

There I was – my legs out the car door and the front bumper of the car buried in an evergreen bush in front of someone’s picture window. Happily, the living room behind the picture window was dark.

I lay there for a moment to catch my breath.

Then I straightened myself around and backed the car off the lawn. I parked the car on the level. I put the car in park. I put on the emergency brake. I braced the tires with a set of commercial airliner wheel chocks.

I retraced my steps. I went to the house where the car I hit was parked. Turned out that car belonged to a guest at a party there. So I got to tell my tale to a whole roomful of folks – great. They got a kick out of the story.

I knocked on the door of the house of the tree the car had hit. “You what? I’m sorry, I’m not sure what you’re talking about.” said the poor, confused woman who answered that door.

I called my Dad and told him what had happened.

The next morning, Sunday, Mom and Dad and my brother and sister and I went out to the car to go to Mass. When my sister saw the big dent in the car from its bankshot off the tree, she said what any little sister must say at such a moment: “WHAT HAPPENED TO THE CAR?!!?!!”

“Great,” I thought, “here it comes.”

But, before the Inquisition could continue, Dad chuckled and said “I kissed a tree with the car last night. Let’s go. Chop, chop!”

How about that – “I kissed a tree with the car last night.”

True story.

That was one of the things for which I was thankful in 1974.

I’m still thankful for the assist my Dad gave me that Sunday morning. I’m pretty sure he’s thankful I don’t chase his car down snowy streets anymore.

(Originally published in the November 18th, 2007 Rapid City Journal)

Staying in focus can be tough for a storyteller

2007-11-20T10:34:00.000-07:00

The Spectator
Jeremiah M. Murphy

The photographer Lee Friedlander once said, about taking pictures: "I only wanted Uncle Vern standing by his new car (a Hudson) on a clear day. I got him and the car. I also got a bit of Aunt Mary's laundry, and Beau Jack, the dog, peeing on a fence, and a row of potted tuberous begonias on the porch and 78 trees and a million pebbles in the driveway and more. It's a generous medium, photography.”

Isn’t that terrific? Reads like a Ted Kooser poem. Beats my other choices to get the ball rolling for a photography column - “Take a picture, it lasts longer!” or “A picture’s worth a thousand words.” Ugh.

But, once I picked a topic and found a quote to get things started, this story went another direction. I couldn’t stay focused on the topic of photography. I kept trying to come up with interesting photography stories to put behind that starter quote but my attention kept drifting.

Friday night, after I had locked in to this photography column notion, I was at a high school football game and ran into a friend of mine. He had, in a roundabout way, recommended the mineral baths at the Stroppel Hotel and Spa in Midland to me and I thanked him for the tip.

Kaia and I and our two youngest kids - Chloe and Dylan, stopped at the Stroppel mineral baths on our way back from Brookings a few weeks ago. It was great! The price was reasonable, the water was really refreshing, and the folks who run the joint were very nice.

Anyway, trading notes on the Midland mineral baths got my friend talking about another small town with another thermal spring – Capa, SD. Long ago Capa had mineral baths. Turns out that area is lousy with geothermal resources.

My friend told me that Capa, located on the Bad River Road between Pierre and Midland, was once called “Capa City”.

The story is, Capa was a jerkwater town. That is, it was equipped with a wooden water tank and served as a watering stop for trains. A train would pull in and the fireman would pull the tank’s spout over the boiler and yank the cord that let water out of the tank – he’d “jerk water” for the train.

As the story goes, the volume of the water tank in Capa was stenciled on the side of the tank. It said “CAPACITY . . . “. Well, you get the picture.

The Tuesday after that Friday football game I was at a volleyball game waiting in line at the concession truck parked outside the gym. Several girls came by with jackets that said “Scotties”. For some reason it registered with me that Scotties is the mascot for Philip High School. But I wasn’t sure, so I checked with a friend who would know. “Indeed”, he said, “The Scotties are named after “Scotty” Philip, the Buffalo King.”

The “Buffalo King” - I love that kind of stuff!

James “Scotty” Philip is credited as the man who saved the buffalo. Philip was a Scottish born miner, teamster, messenger, cowboy, and freight hauler who finally settled into ranching. Philip ranched along the Bad River – the river that gave its name to the road on which Capa is located. See how this thing is panning out?

Philip bought a fledgling herd of bison at a time when the species was just about done for and grew that to nearly 1,000 head at the time of his death. That herd provided the basis for the herd in Custer State Park and for other large herds that thrive to this day. Thus Philip (after whom the town is named) is credited with saving the buffalo.

So, like Friedlander who got so much more than he wanted with his camera, I got lucky.

I only wanted to tell a story about taking pictures. But I got a quote about photography that is poetic in its phrasing, a bit of a story about a town named after a word on a water tank, and I learned about the Buffalo King. It’s a generous medium, writing.

Next time I go to Pierre I’m taking the Bad River Road. I’ll take my camera. I might get some good pictures. Maybe do a column about photography.

(Originally published in the October 16th, 2007 Rapid City Journal)

Try music to soothe the savage parent.

2007-11-20T10:21:00.000-07:00

The Spectator
Jeremiah M. Murphy

“It’s a bunch of kids kicking a ball around.”

I try to keep that in mind when I watch my kids play organized sports. It helps keep things in perspective.

I’m not a great fan of organizing sports for kids. I think I understand why organized sports have swept away sandlot games. But I also think the organization of so many kid’s games creates problems - problems like parents on the sidelines.

Take soccer for example –

I was at a boy’s soccer game at Sioux Park one fine autumn afternoon when a parent went ballistic over a remarkably inept call by the referee. The parent hollered at the ref in a voice so loud it was heard by people eating lunch across town at Tally’s. This knucklehead went off like a bomb. I understand he apologized to the coach and to team members (including his own son) for his outburst. Rumor has it he even gave his kid a prized t-shirt to make amends for his gaffe.

Parents can really mess up the simple pleasures of a bunch of kids kicking a ball around.

Some parents coach from the sidelines. “Move up!” “Move back!” “Move to the left!” “To the right!” “Don’t mark that guy!” “Mark that guy!” Paaass!” “Shooot!” This drives (actual) coaches and players nuts. I don’t coach from the sidelines. This isn’t due to virtue but to ignorance - I don’t know anything about soccer.

Some parents goad opposing players. You’ll hear parents at soccer games yell stuff like this: “Don’t stoop to their level boys!” Nice huh? I’ve used that one. My wife Kaia hates that. Hate’s it. That’s because she’s a good person who is kind to others.

Some parents heckle refs - “Hang in there kids – you can beat all twelve of ‘em!” This one is a guilty pleasure of mine. I shouldn’t yell this, but I do. It’s a stealth taunt - am I picking on the ref or am I innumerate? I’ve yelled this at soccer games and gotten a neat double-take from parents and refs. “Hey, wait a sec, did he mean . . . ?”

But don’t despair. If you’re a parent like me, there is help for you.

I discovered the solution to my bad sidelines behavior at a soccer tournament in Boulder. It was a tournament for sixteen and seventeen year olds so the play was physical and emotions ran high. For the first couple games I was goading opposing fans, players, and the refs for all I was worth. Opposing fans were giving as well as they were getting. Some of us parents were doing our best to suck the fun right out of the deal.

Then, to pass the time between the second and third games of the weekend, I listened to music through the earphones of my MP3 player. When the third game started, and with the music still playing, I realized something – this was nice! It’s fun to watch kids play soccer. But it’s a gas to watch kids play soccer with a soundtrack.

BB King and Gary Moore were playing “The Thrill is Gone” as I had this epiphany. It was a great combination – soothing music laid over soccer. Better yet, I couldn’t hear taunts from opposing fans so I wasn’t tempted to respond. Bonus!

If you want to add music to your soccer experience the trick is to find tunes that synch with the speed of play.

A song like “Last Night” by the Mar-keys is a great compliment to a soccer game. “Sack O’ Woe” (I like the George Benson version) works well. “Express Yourself” by Charles Wright and the Watts 103rd Street Rhythm Band or “As the Years Go Passing By” by Boz Scaggs with Booker T and the MGs are great for soccer. “Neighborhood” by Tift Merritt is good. “Yeah, yeah” by Georgie Fame and the Famous Flames is terrific.

Be careful though, punch up something hot like “You Can’t Stop Progress” by Clutch or “Money” by the Sonics and you’ll only make things worse. Your pulse and blood pressure will ascend to dangerous levels and you’ll be tempted to throw yourself right into the middle of the game.

You get the picture. If you find yourself at a kid’s soccer game, plug in the tunes and leave the game to the kids. Because I’ll tell you, if I’d been listening to “Loan Me A Dime” by Boz Scaggs or “Corrina, Corrina” by Bob Dylan that fine autumn day at Sioux Park, I wouldn’t have had to apologize to all those people. And I’d still have that t-shirt.

I really miss that t-shirt.

(Originally published in the September 16th, 2007 Rapid City Journal)

The payoffs of parenting worth the wait

2007-11-20T10:13:00.000-07:00

The Spectator
Jeremiah M. Murphy

Kevin Woster asked me to write a monthly column for the Journal about, among other things, parenting. I thought “What I know about parenting would fit on the back of a matchbook cover.”

Remember matchbooks? Lighters? Cigarettes? Do they make that stuff any more?.

Everyone carried matches not so long ago. They needed a good supply of matches because they had so much smoking to do – at schools, hospitals, athletic events, offices, restaurants. People smoked everywhere. That’s the way it seemed anyway.

No more. That’s changed.

Four years ago I saw how much it has changed. I was sitting in the bleachers at St. Thomas More High School with our son Hunter. Hunter, the oldest Murphy kid, was a freshman at STM. He and I were attending orientation with other parents and students.

Hunter did not suffer my presence well. He’d reached that point in life where the presence of his parents had become a burden.

We listened attentively (OK, I may have dozed at points – it was August in a crowded high school gym for crying in the night.) as administrators and teachers explained the rules and procedures and expectations for high school students.

One thing stands out about that assembly - I vividly remember Principal Sullivan’s diatribe against gum chewing. He was a regular Carrie Nation on the subject. He elevated gum-chewing to the level of Deadly Sin - right there between greed and lust.

I expected the gum chewing sermon to be followed by a smoking lecture. That was a highlight of any discussion of the rules in my high school days – “No Smoking!” It was a rule that got a lot of attention because it was often broken. My high school had a whole routine for smokers. Get caught smoking in school and you paid a fine and your parents got a letter. Get caught again, pay a bigger fine, another letter to your parents. And so on.

“Here it comes,” I thought, “the smoking lecture”. But, remarkably, nothing.

Finally, as the principal fired one more shot across the bow of the gum chewers, I leaned over to Hunter and I stage whispered “What about smoking? Is it OK to smoke in school?”

“Dad! Shhh!”

“I’m going to ask Sullivan. What’s the drill here; do I raise my hand or what?”

“Dad, seriously, knock it off!”

“Well then you ask him.” I whispered “Ask him if it’s OK to chew gum if you’re doing it to break a smoking habit.”

“Dad . . .”

“No, no, wait! Ask him if it’s OK to smoke if you’re trying to break a gum-chewing habit. C’mon!”

“DAD!”

I gave up. Clearly I was torturing the poor kid. I had drawn unwanted attention to him. Worse, I had blown his cover. It was apparent to people near us that he had a parent and his parent was talking to him and that . . . aargh!!

So, that day, I learned that, in the 27 years since I was in high school, the smoking habits of teenagers had changed while my proclivity to play the class clown in a high school assembly had not changed at all.

That was almost four years ago.

This past May, four school years after that freshman orientation, Hunter stood at the front of an STM assembly. The Bishop, administrators, teachers, parents, students, family and friends had gathered for the graduation of the STM Class of 2007. Hunter spoke to us.

He had changed. He still didn’t want his Dad to draw goofy attention to him, but he was proud to draw the best kind of attention to himself. He spoke as his class representative with conviction and intelligence. He spoke with wit and with passion.

Earlier in that graduation assembly he got up from his seat and walked back to Kaia and me. He gave his Mom a flower and a hug and gave me a big handshake. He’d changed from the fourteen year old who wanted to show no public connection with his parents to an eighteen year old who was happy to acknowledge us.

So I know this about parenting – it pays dividends. The changes above and many other changes in Hunter have been my privilege to experience as a parent.

I’m looking forward to the changes to come.

(Originally published in the August 19th, 2007 Rapid City Journal)