Death of a friend, a classmate, a great one

Death changes a person. It should. One should reflect on a loved one's life, what it meant to you. What it meant to others.

When I was editor-publisher of The Winthrop News in the '80s, I would often write about a close friend's death. It would often trigger a rush of emotions, from me, from family of the deceased. I didn't write such columns often, but enough to try and bring some sense to death, to the inevitable end we all face. To try and make some meaning of life.

When I was young, I wanted to save the world. Today, I just want to save myself, save my soul. That's difficult enough. And part of saving one's soul, I believe, is to reflect. Search deep. Find some meaning to the madness. Maybe through it all, you'll manage to save your soul, and maybe one or two others along the way.

But some deaths are so much more difficult. When my dad died at 93, he was still sharp, still thinking, still talking politics and baseball. Puddy had become a close friend. And I wasn't yet ready to let him go, so despite his age and a body that failed him, he had much more to give. When my mom died a few years later, her mind had left. Karen's was no life to live. So we were ready to let go of mom.

Losing the first high school classmate, well that's something much different. From the Winthrop High School Class of 1975, all 54 of us were still around...until Oct. 31, 2014. Josef M. Yonkovich of Outing, MN, had battled cancer too long. It was time.

(Right, left to right: Joe Yonkovich, Mark Trebelhorn, me. These guys showed for my dad's funeral. Mark and I made it to Joe's.)

I always described Joe the same way: "He had the brightest smile and an even better hug." I had known Joe in many ways, like playing ping pong in the basement of the Yonkovich home on Hwy. 15 just north of Lafayette and shooting baskets in the loft of his barn, usually with his Lafayette area neighbor, Jim Youngblom. We were golf teammates. Joe had this beautiful swing, which contrasted harshly with my baseball grip.

But while I found success on the high school basketball court and golf course, Joe never really found himself during those times. He had not yet grown to his 6-5 frame, and he was living in the shadows of two older brothers, long gone from the Yonkovich home. I journeyed on my first cross country venture with Joe, visiting his brother Gene and wife Janice in Phoenix, Ariz. when we were just 16.

Joe and I flew to Phoenix together, met up with Gene and Janice who had been hosting Big John Yonkovich, Joe and Gene's rough-around-the-edges father. The three of us turned around and drove a car back to Minnesota and, at 16, learned a new vocabulary. Big John had those massive hands of a farmer and a temper to match. Joe told me the story of Big John tossing a pitchfork into the side of a disrespectful Holstein. I wouldn't have been a very good farmer.

I don't think Joe liked it all that well either, at least not as much as Big John. And when Joe left the family farm behind and headed into the Twin Cities, my visits with him slowed. But the annual treks by Joe down to Winthrop's annual alumni basketball tournament were treasured.

Joe had the dubious distinction of being one of only a couple basketball players ever cut from the WHS program. Increasing participant numbers among boys in the '70s, the advent of girls basketball, and the lack of facilities at old WHS prompted Coach Lyle Muth to reduce his squad. Coach told me many times since then that it was one of his deepest regrets in coaching. In those soon to be discovered alumni tournaments, Joe proved Coach Muth wrong about the cut, right about the regret.

Joe Yonkovich turned into one very fine basketball player. His shooting touch along the baseline was a treat to watch. He had this odd little kick of both legs when he shot his two-handed jumper, ball just a bit above his head. As a teammate, he was great. As a friend, he was unrivaled.

It can sometimes be sad when time and distance pulls friends away. But with Joe, he had found himself. He seemed to enjoy the Twin Cities, found meaningful work with Medtronic and later Boston Scientific. But mainly, he found Susan Olson. They married on May 23, 1997 in Brainerd. The couple had one daughter, Sydonia, still a junior in high school. And Joe embraced three step-children.

Joe also rediscovered the outdoors and loved it. His obituary made that clear: "He enjoyed fishing, four-wheeling, boating, snowmobiling and was an avid sports fan. He especially loved spending time with his family."

I had only met Susan once before the funeral, that years earlier at one of those alumni basketball tournaments. When I hugged her after the funeral, I didn't want to let go. I tried to tell her just how much Joe meant to me, how special he was to my wife, Kim, how my kids remembered how fondly I spoke of him. But the tears returned. So I hugged a bit more.

I hugged like Joe would hug me. With that brightest of smiles and the deepest sincerity.

But what struck me most was Susan's strength and message. She said despite the pain and suffering Joe battled these past few years, it made their marriage stronger. It gave her a deeper sense of his love and commitment to family. Without the cancer, she said, she would have never felt Joe's true spirit.

That is the message Joe leaves us all. Peace, dear friend.

Henderson's allure goes beyond the classic cars;
it's about leadership and a love of Main Street 
by Dana Melius

Henderson, a town of just 886, saw its numbers swell by the thousands at last Tuesday's "Classic Car Roll-In" finale. A record 320 classic cars and another 200 motorcycles lined the streets of this small, eastern Sibley County community.

But it's more than just the amazing, restored old cars that draws them in to Henderson. It's an old-fashioned fun night that one rarely sees in these parts any more. It's a historic Main Street that has taken to preservation like few others. And it's about a vibrant leadership network that doesn't slow down and constantly is thinking both outside the traditions of small town and in a bold, "can-do" attitude.

Granted, Henderson's close proximity to the Twin Cities and the riches of the western and southern suburbs helps immensely; but any small town in close proximity could do the same...and hasn't. And the bluffs of the Minnesota River and its Scenic Byway routes into Henderson don't hurt either.

But this is special in so many other ways. Henderson discovered its niche long before its Chamber of Commerce began encouraging classic car enthusiasts and bikers to come to town. Historic preservation of Henderson's Main Street, along Hwy. 19, and the revitalization of the community's educational roots helped springboard this growing excitement and pride of small-town living. Henderson is what small-town, rural life should be about -- a commitment to education, civic engagement and volunteerism, and a renewed desire for a simpler way.

In Henderson, it's not just a pipe dream or dying vision. It's a reality show worth watching.

Coach Chuck Sundeen...and that 14-7 football win over Gaylord, 40 years ago
by Dana Melius

Coach and football were one and the same around these parts for decades. As we've oozed into the gridiron season, the memories of Charlie should not fade. They will, of course, as nearly always seems the case as loved ones leave us. But this fall marks the 40th anniversary, for god's sake, of old Winthrop High School's 14-7 football victory over those feared and fabled Gaylord Spartans. So, the memories remain.

Coach Sundeen died Thursday, April 10. He had not been well for some time, most recently living at Oak Terrace Assisted Living in Gaylord. He was 74 and had not treated his body well through the years. I last saw Coach a couple months before he died; it was the first time since I met him initially in the fall of 1971 that Charlie didn't recognize me. But he still had that formidable handshake. I'll always remember that about Coach. That firmness was in part because he was a powerful man in his day and that grip never left him.

But the real reason for that firm handshake, I believe, was because Charlie was always glad to see you, always glad to visit and reminisce. Coach had gone through a lot in his days, some good, some bad. Like most of us. Charlie's bad days were really bad; his good days were often football related. He was one of the most sincere, complicated, talented, compassionate and crazy son-of-a-bitch I'd ever encountered. We were very close during my WHS days. And I loved him dearly.

Charlie gave me everything he had as a coach. He never thought it was enough, but for this young, aspiring athlete, Coach came in already a legendary presence and figure...and built on that. I was just a freshman-to-be for old Winthrop High School's Warriors that fall. My high school football coach from the previous season, Wayne Schrupp, had resigned and we awaited the arrival of this highly regarded collegiate assistant coach who had built quite the resume in his early years of high school coaching at Pequot Lakes. Assistants from St. Cloud State didn't come into Winthrop, a school with little football success, with a school-best record through the years of just 5-3-1 during the 1968-69 season.

Charlie vowed to change all that for old WHS, and -- little did I know at the time, he was going to put a bulk of that early burden on the shoulders of this lanky, 6-2, 160-pound freshman. In the fall of '71, I enjoyed football but didn't live and die it like Coach. Basketball and baseball were my loves, as well as sneaking in rounds of golf. Football was a distant fourth back then, if that. Track might have even been more to my suiting at the time.

As an eighth-grader, I had been moved up to serve as back-up quarterback to sophomore Randy Gustafson, a bull of a QB. I didn't like quarterback and blame close friend Brian Brigger for that painful, youthful season on varsity. Brian, one year older, didn't come out for football that fall because he knew he'd be varsity back-up and didn't think he was ready. Neither of us were. In one clean-up game, I fumbled the snap from center eight straight times. Senior Dale Isaacson snapped it so damn hard one cold night that Coach inserted the more passive Tim Oakland the second series. But it didn't matter. It was cold, and I wanted to go home. That's gotta still be a state record.

Brian was back the fall of '71; Coach saw his potential early, moved Gustafson to fullback, and saved my soul. Still, Charlie had plans for me. I started at cornerback as a freshman, with close friend Dale Reed on the other corner. Dale, a senior, drew the opposition's best receivers, so it made my life easier but Dale's somewhat miserable. On offense, I filled in at halfback or end, playing mostly when older players went down with injuries. I ended up holding for extra points. And punting.

We punted a lot that fall. One sailed 72 yards at Gaylord, through the end zone, but it didn't matter. The Spartans crushed us, just like they did every year. Three more years of punting and I never launched one farther. But we also didn't punt as much after that. Charlie made us better. We didn't post winning records Coach's first two years at GFW, but one could see the program's growth. Kids wanted to play for Sundeen.

By the time Brigger was a senior, the Warriors went on to a school-best 7-2. Charlie was still demanding. I broke my ankle in the season's second-to-last game at Gibbon and was carried off the field in lots of pain. Trouble is, we didn't know it was broke, so Charlie still said I'd be punting and holding for extra points in the season finale vs. Springfield. I tried one punt, landing on that broken left ankle and said no more. Fine, but I'd still hold for PATs. Anybody could do that, Coach said. Even with a bum ankle. And classic Charlie, he called a fake kick and made me run wide right to try for two points. I was able to slide in ala today's wussy quarterbacks and said no more. Charlie half grumbled, half smiled but gave me the remainder of the game off.

To Charlie, the 7-2 season wasn't good enough because we lost to Gaylord. Still, to most of Winthrop, who never thought this would be a football town, Coach was a hero. And finally, other teams in the Tomahawk Conference took notice.

But Brigger and the Class of '74 left with lots of talent. My classmates were mostly unknowns and, frankly, there was not a lot of optimism as the season unfolded. It was that classic "rebuilding" season that was expected of us. Not from Charlie.

On the first play from scrimmage in the season opener, a Norwood-Young America running back went about 60 yards off right tackle for a touchdown. As defensive captain at middle safety, I bitched loudly at the guys but found that left-side linebacker Les Werner had suffered a concussion on the kickoff and was clueless that play. The NYA back had gone right through his zone, and Les was babbling nonsense. But my thoughts already went to, "Man, this could be a long season."

Charlie's practices did, indeed, make for a long season. He would sometimes perch atop the baseball light tower platform and run "one more play." Those marathon practice sessions often pissed us off, as well as fellow coaches, parents looking for their kids, administrators and -- of course -- bus drivers waiting to take home student-athletes. For Charlie, we were athletes first, then students. Actually, we were simply football players. His.

But these practices served an important purpose. First, Sundeen conditioned us hard in pre-season. We all dreaded those because, in those days, all summer was dedicated to simpler things, like baseball and golf. We needed those first two weeks to get back into shape. We knew it; Coach knew it. More so, Charlie lived and died football. You could see it and feel it. And it morphed into our souls.

That's how Coach turned things around at old WHS. Football not only became important again, it reigned. Football success under Sundeen meant a school year started off with a bang. And that success transformed over to other sports. Coach was making the Warriors relevant once again.

And nothing could put Winthrop High School back on the sports map more than a football victory over fabled Gaylord. The Spartans had dominated the Tomahawk Conference landscape -- and, particularly, Winthrop -- forever it seemed. Gaylord had defeated Winthrop in football for 31 straight years. Imagine that. Since 1943, long before the current crop of Warriors were born, Gaylord beat us up. I was like most Warrior football players, growing up knowing of Gaylord's dominance.

But on October 11, 1974, that all changed. We had already lost twice during the season -- a 16-11 defeat to a strong, first-year entry, Mountain Lake, which sent their monster lineman on to the NFL; and a 20-12 upset in Fairfax. Some blamed that loss on Charlie's insistence that we practice before the game at Fort Ridgely, then show up just prior to game time. I hated that approach, but the more one complained to Coach about it, the closer he cut it. Thankfully, it was just seven miles to Gaylord...with no Fort.

But through those first six games of the '74-75 season, our rebuilding season had also changed. We became pretty darn good. My fellow seniors improved, and with the addition of tackle Jim Sanders returning from reform school, we were becoming feared. Jim's reputation throughout the conference grew by word-of-mouth, at a time when there was not much media coverage. Word had it that Sanders had actually returned from prison, and his long, bushy hair was a menacing look. It didn't hurt either that in a 34-2 whooping of Morton, Sanders chased a dirty opponent lineman 50 yards downfield before catching him in the end zone and landing some punches. Jim's only regret, he told me after the game, was not removing the Morton player's helmet. I loved playing football with Jim and my senior buddies who hadn't been expected to repeat the previous year's 7-2 mark.

And at 4-2 and staring at favored Gaylord the next week, many doubted we would. However, we dominated the Spartans that warm fall night in Gaylord, but led just 14-7 in the fourth quarter. Gaylord's lone score came when me and teammate Jim Youngblom collided going for an interception, freeing the Spartan receiver for a long score, tying the game for a time. You could sense the fear of Warrior fans. But burly sophomore fullback Bob Bussler and brother Tom, a junior halfback, carried the load on the ground. Sundeen was wise throughout the game, spelling the Busslers with senior backs Youngblom and Mark Trebelhorn, wearing down the Gaylord defense.

As the clock ticked down, Winthrop fans in the hundreds roared. Our rebuilding effort had not only surprised the locals, it ended the curse. I remember 1974 WHS graduate Kevin Lindstrand, who had moved on to play collegiate football at Gustavus, leaping into my arms and knocking me down. We had lost something like 40-0 the previous year, when we were loaded.


The post-game celebration was nuts. Fire trucks met us at the Bernadotte turnoff and led us into Winthrop. Fans gathered at the WHS auditorium and treated us like royalty. And we were for a time. You had to grow up in Winthrop at the time and then wear a football uniform to understand what beating Gaylord meant to this community.

And Coach Sundeen soaked it all in. His legend grew. We went on to win our final two games over Wabasso and Sleepy Eye by a 59-0 margin. I ended my football career with five interceptions against Sleepy Eye, which still stands tied for a state record, as I remind my family from time to time. And I owed my four years of growth and team play to Charlie. Not those practices, but to his insistence on perfection and will. We weren't perfect, but damn we tried.

At his funeral, a former Gaylord assistant coach, Mike Quist, greeted me in the Peace Lutheran Church reception hall. I had not seen him since the days Gaylord and Winthrop had merged football programs. I had helped with pre-season workouts; Mike and Charlie became assistants under another coaching legend, Dave Main. Mike and Dave smiled and immediately brought up that 14-7 Winthrop victory. And Mike remembered the same two plays that I did -- a well-timed end reverse that sprung me (and lead blocker JC Chrest, a great center) for a game-clinching 50-yard gain; and my interception of a wobbly halfback pass.  I was burnt bad on that play, but the Warrior pass rush by Sanders, Brian Gutknecht, Jeff Bussler and Johnny O'Brien rushed the throw and saved me. (O'Brien was the meanest 140-pound defensive guard on the planet, but that's another story.)

Mike loved Coach. Both had similar loves and demons. That seemed to bond the two men, Mike traveled from northern Minnesota to send Charlie off and talk football one more time.

Charlie went on to other football successes, including a state championship with the Gibbon-Fairfax-Winthrop Thunderbirds in 1989. But that Gaylord win, I've always contended, might have been even bigger and more important. In the '74-75 season, there were limited playoffs. You had to win the conference to go on in this complicated computer point system. Newbies Mountain Lake went on as the Tomahawk representative, going 8-1. The rest of us only played eight conference games that year, and Gaylord complained loudly, as the loss to Winthrop left the Spartans a half-game back in second.

At Coach's funeral, I was surprised no one stood up and talked about that Gaylord victory in the fall of '74. For those of us who played in Charlie's early years, we recalled it. But memories fade, new ones emerge, and time flies by. Those of us touched by the crazy ways and style of Coach Sundeen will never forget him.

And that's a good thing.

Cutlines
Top: Charlie's obituary picture at his April 19 funeral service.

Second: The 1970s Coach look.

Third: Coach Sundeen and close friend and Winthrop roommate Dale Reed, with cherished banjos.

Fourth: The 1975 annual picture. Coach with tri-captains (me, Brian Gutknecht and Mark Trebelhorn)

Fifth: Charlie earning his 100th career win while at GFW.

Finally: Charley's wild side, one of many.

Enjoying family time

March madness in the Melius house
March is always kind of a crazy time in the Melius household. March 24, for example, is a birthday shared by Grandpa Melvin Polzin and son #2 Billy Melius, as well as wife Kim and my anniversary. And 2014 brought some historic numbers to our celebrations: Mel's 85th, Billy's 30th, and our 35th. And, yes, Mikell, all of this is just four days after your 22nd birthday.

The family is wrapping up March 2014 with a shower for son #4 Andy and his fiance, Sarah Marie Banister (in this great black and white engagement picture). Andy and Sarah, both special education teachers in Traverse City, Michigan, arrived in Winthrop on Friday evening and sticking around through mid-Monday morning.

Showers are one of those small-town wonders, when friends and family come together for a brief time to try and get to know one another again. For as life passes on so quickly, nothing really stays the same. Andy graduated in 2007 from GFW High School in Winthrop and met Sarah while both were students at Winona State University. Sarah's parents, Rhonda and Gary, live in Wisconsin. It all makes for some long travels -- there's no real quick drive from or to Traverse City, Michigan. It's a gorgeous place, from what I've been told, for the Winthrop Melius clan has yet to visit there. Hopefully, soon.

So, for the time being, we're left with shower time. It's still pretty much a woman's thing; I've never really understood that, and I'm sure traditions are changing in many places. In Winthrop, at Peace Lutheran Church and in most local churches, the ladies still steal the show. That's cuz, frankly, they work harder and plan better.

All I know is that the locals are still too kind and generous. The gifts young couples, like Andy and Sarah, bring home from these get-togethers are amazing. Andy used to play drums in the praise team at church, solidifying his place in Peace Lutheran folklore. And while Pastor Bob Miner remains one of my best friends and confidantes, I haven't been a member of the church for a few years. When searching for my spiritual values and principles, I discovered those beliefs aligned much closer to a Unitarian philosophy, so I moved on. But wife Kim still belongs, and her friends managed quite a show.

Close friend Rhonda Wilhelm helped piece this welcome table together, with a baseball theme. Since Andy's love for baseball remains strong, it seemed appropriate. And as Rhonda designed it, "Andy made quite a catch." Indeed.

Andy and Sarah will be married June 21 in Winona.

This all comes less than a year after Billy married Jessica Spilde in St. Peter's Minnesota Square Park in a wonderful early fall celebration. It's never quite the same when some of the kids are not in attendance -- daughter Ambryn remained in Seattle, saving up points to make that June wedding. Any way you look at it, the times they are a-changing very fast. And while you so cherish these events and live for them, you still miss the kids. When you have six children, there are both so many memories and so much you miss of them.

But you also know there is no slowing down the clock. So you enjoy the times, note that your kids are moving on and smiling through most of it, and you hope for their safety and happiness. You never stop being Dad. And you hope they never stop being your kids.

A return to the arts
I always wanted to be a singer-songwriter. It was my dream, maybe still is. When I was lucky enough to be chosen by the amazing Ronnie Brooks to participate  in what was then called the Institute for Renewing Community Leadership (IRCL), I surprised many of the 18 other participants by calling that my dream job.

Unfortunately, I'm not going to fulfill that dream...I don't think, but dreams should never die. Ronnie (right) wouldn't be happy with me. But life does bring on limitations. Talent's one of them!

Yet, music fills my soul and carries me places I would have never dreamed going. I have grown to have such an appreciation for music and the arts. I think it's in part because of those talent limitations, in part because I believe so strongly in a liberal arts education. Give every student a well-rounded taste of the arts and you'll have a better, deeper, kinder world.

Us IRCL alumni will always refer to it as such; it's actually now called the James P. Shannon Leadership Institute, with Ronnie Brooks as founder. Amazing people, amazing thoughts.

Over the past few weeks, I've been fortunate to watch and listen and enjoy several diverse regional artists: poet Matt Rasmussen, author Nicole Helget, artist Dana Sikkila and new Executive Director of the Arts Center of St. Peter, Ann Rosenquist Fee (below, right). This region is a far better place because of their presence here.

At the February 22 reading by Nicole and Matt at the Arts Center, some 100 people crammed into that fun space in downtown St. Peter.  The event also welcomed Ann as the new ED there, and her gifts to this region's art scene are already surfacing. What a talent. Ann left the corporate educational world of Minnesota State University-Mankato to be where she belongs -- in the arts and with her music. She and former Mankato Free Press writer Joe Tougas form the acoustical duo, The Frye.

In an interview prior to the Feb. 22 event, Ann explained her need to sing with The Frye nearly every weekend, despite an already hectic schedule: "It's something I need for my well-being. My fix. My high."

Music can do that to the soul. It should.

So can poetry. I'm horrible at it, lack the discipline I believe that's needed to frame those words just right. Matt, on the other hand, has nailed it. Here's what Amazon.com said about his five-star book of poems, Black Aperture, a Walt Whitman Award winner:

"In his moving debut collection, Matt Rasmussen faces the tragedy of his brother's suicide, refusing to focus on the expected pathos, blurring the edge between grief and humor. In "Outgoing", the speaker erases his brother's answering machine message to save his family from "the shame of dead you / answering calls..." 

"...Destructive and redemptive, Black Aperture opens to the complicated entanglements of mourning: damage and healing, sorrow and laughter, and torment balanced with moments of relief."


My take: Wow! His reading moved between dark humor and intense feelings. And a warm smile and deep heart that seems to suggest Matt's both moving on and holding tight. He acknowledged poetry gives him little financial reward, but that's his life work (along with teaching at Gustavus Adolphus College in St. Peter).


Nicole's writings are gaining more steam with her recent release, Stillwater. The Sleepy Eye native and current North Mankato resident weaves a historical story of trapper Beaver Jean in the late 1800s. I have not begun to read it, but if Nicole's inability to hold in her laughter at the Feb. 22 reading is any indication, I can't wait:

"I can't believe I wrote that!" she smiled, detailing a scene in which Beaver Jean attempts to bury his beloved horse, a creature he likely loved more than his three wives...

Dana Sikkila's energy might rival all of them. Dana works a 40-hour-a-week job as a digital press operator for Taylor Corporation in North Mankato, is an adjunct art professor at MSU, and serves as a volunteer executive director of the 410 Project, an eclectic art space in downtown Mankato. There she also serves as Artistic Director of Black Water Press, a community print-making concept for local artists.  And on March 20, Dana will have her own "installation art" exhibit at Twin Rivers Council for the Arts at 523 South Second Street in Mankato, just a block away from the 410 Project.

(Left: Dana Sikkila with Murphy.)

This collection of artists represents only a small portion of the growing pool of talent in the Minnesota River Valley region. Those who are part of that pool understand it already. Those of us still chasing our dreams are finding out, too, and loving it.

Ronnie Brooks' IRCL group of 1999 discussed Viktor Frankl's Man's Search for Meaning. As time continues to fly by and as I'm searching for hope and direction, I often turn to my IRCL journal:

• Be more reflective
• Take more risks
• Take more spiritual risks
• Take more emotional risks
• Take more intellectual risks
• Be more clear about purpose
• Don't die alone/be connected

Simple stuff, really. Yet so very hard to hold tight. 

These River Valley Women: Several who touched my soul in 2013

In another life, I used to spend some time in public speaking. It's part of the deal in the non-profit world. Or a brief, failed journey into politics. Or simply being asked when timetables are tight and others far more notable than yourself can't make an event. I understood my place in the pecking order.

As a long-time journalist and part-time political scientist, I would at times be asked a version of this question, "What one thing would best change the current state of politics and make for better government?"  My response was always this:

"Never again elect a white male to office."

Because those in attendance were usually more liberal than my rural neighbors, always more diverse, the comment would elicit some early laughs, then applause. You've got to know your crowd.

But I also meant it. Not that every female politician is better or less embarrassing. (See: Michelle Bachmann.) Yet, it would have to be better. Women bring a different perspective to politics. I'd say it's a broader perspective, more tolerable, more forgiving, more negotiable. (Some husbands might disagree, but that's another story.) And, frankly, us white males have pretty much screwed things up for a long time.

Where am I going with this? Well, it's been over a year since I brought words to this blog. Surprised me a bit when I saw the time lapse because it's not that I haven't been writing. Actually, I wrote more in 2013 than at any time since leaving an active journalism life some 20 years ago. It's just that I've shifted to other outlets. And it's brought me to some wonderful people, talents that have inspired me to do better, do more.

And they have deeply touched my soul.

For the past several months, I've been fortunate enough to write for River Valley Woman, a fresh, first-year magazine. Geographically, its delivery area runs from Redwood Falls to Henderson on the north, from St. James to Mankato on the south. It's allowed a return to those journalism roots. More importantly, it's given me opportunities to meet special young talents who are making a difference here and beyond.

Journalism never leaves your blood. You go into it for certain reasons; you leave it for basic economics. You return to it because of life circumstances and, likely, for the same reasons you originally entered the field. A love for telling a story.  It's a powerful thing when someone opens up their story to you and trusts you in telling it back. That deep-rooted trust is something I've never taken lightly. You've got to truly listen and watch. You've only got this brief period to capture one's heart and soul. And, man, what soul.

August: Nicole Helget. This gifted rural Minnesota writer has guts and talent and wit and eyes that melt one's fear away. When I was assigned my first cover story for River Valley Woman's August issue, I knew there was simply no way I could match Nicole's talents. It was a bit intimidating, to begin with. It remained that way through the final draft. And the fact that I had worked closely with her sisters and mother during a five-year stint in the kitchen at the Kaiserhoff in New Ulm made this one a bit more personal.

September: Sarah Kuglin. I love stories about rural Minnesotans who remain dedicated to this lifestyle. Sarah's social media, technology-based company -- Redwood Valley Technical Solutions -- is amazing. And when someone takes their business success and attempts to share it with others to help sustain our rural business landscape, you've got one special person. And I adore Sarah's last quote in the story: "Your world changes when you become a parent. When I think of the future, I hope my daughter someday can keep living in rural Minnesota."

October: Krista Morneau. Not all knew Krista was a "valley" girl. The Minnesota River Valley. She grew up in my hometown of Winthrop, attended GFW schools and also had a lake home in the Lake Crystal area. Married to former Minnesota Twins first baseman Justin Morneau, October was likely going to be my last opportunity to interview her for a cover story. Justin was likely going to be traded;
October is Major League Baseball playoff time. From the time I interviewed her but prior to publication, Justin was dealt to the Pittsburgh Pirates, a playoff team and an emotional run for the Morneaus. So, the story took a little turn, meaning River Valley Woman had an exclusive. Still, Krista's work with several charities in the Twin Cities region, particularly with Juvenile Arthritis, warranted a story on its own. They will be missed in the Twins family, and they will miss the Twins.

November: The Honorable Judge Krista Jass. She didn't like me using that term, which probably tells you everything you need to know about her. Grounded, appreciative of her opportunities, dedicated mother, and both tough and well-prepared as a young judge in Blue Earth County. The American judicial system isn't always fair and just; spending time with Krista immediately renews a bit of trust to one's being. Despite an immediate comfort in her office and with the interview, it was one of the more difficult interviews of these five young ladies, only because I'm thinking there was so much she could have shared with me, with our readers. She's smart, really personable and tremendously gifted. But judicial canons prevent her from talking on the major topics of the day. But she's ruled out a future run at politics, and that's too bad.

December: Lori Mathiowetz. This one surprised me the most. She's just 30, but an "old soul." That's what I called her almost immediately. and she smiled.  Lori said that's how her teachers and older, fellow graduate school classmates at St. Catherine University in St. Paul described her. That's maybe the end result of a master's degree in theology and certification in "spiritual direction." Lori combines her urban and rural teachings, merges it with the gifts of story-telling and listening, in encouraging "awareness and mindfulness" at Riverbend Spiritual Care in New Ulm. What a gift. What a talent. She and husband, Brett, along with daughters Lily, 6, and Evelyn, now eight months, just returned from Guatemala and work with the San Lucas Toliman Mission.

These were my five 2013 cover stories for River Valley Woman. Their stories continue to provide me hope for rural Minnesota. Their words, their trust in me, have --once more -- altered my life. Journalism is truly a noble art. At least it should be. It's played a critical role in shaping this country's existence, despite the merited criticism of today's talking heads on the cable networks.

Writing for a magazine, a first for me, is a little different. Working for River Valley Woman as the token male is really different, in a good way. Feature stories are fun, meeting wonderfully talented individuals and attempting to tell their stories. I laughed when a friend asked my wife, "When is Dana going to write some stories about men?"  See: Above.

(Note: With this morning's deflation of the famed Metrodome's roof, I pulled out this remembrance of our family's first & last game all together at the stadium in the Twins' final season there in 2009. For many, the Dome highlights were football and the Vikings. But for us, baseball ruled. -- Dana Melius, January 18, 2014.)

October 21, 2009

Metrodome memories: It wasn’t pretty, but it served us well

By Dana Melius

Corralling six kids, as a rule, is a difficult task.  When they’ve spread throughout the country – throughout the world, at times – it gets even tougher.  So, to have all eight of us in tow for the Minnesota Twins’ final weekend of baseball -- the October 3, 2009 game -- at the often-maligned Hubert H. Humphrey Metrodome, well, as daughter Ambryn put it, was “not too shabby, folks.”

Our family had never quite warmed up to the Metrodome.  For starters, our first-born, Ben, didn’t arrive until August 1979, just months before dome construction began in that peculiar industrial area of Minneapolis, just off the I-35 freeway.  The power players who snared the Twins from Bloomington and old Metropolitan Stadium called it downtown, but it never quite seemed like it to me.  Cousin Gary “Gigs” Saxton and I lived at 1104 South Eighth Street, downstairs, at the time the Metrodome site was named, and we couldn’t quite see it.  Bad roads, bad access, little room, still blocks from the more “vibrant” Hennepin Avenue district.  Or maybe it was the smoke from the burning mattress on the front yard.  It wasn’t a pretty area.

But a mere eight years later, Ben would join me for that wonderfully unexpected World Series championship run by the Twins.  Section 141, Row 22, Seats 31 and 32.  We took in the opening game win versus Detroit in the American League Championship Series, nearly catching Dan Gladden’s home run; and we were waving our Homer Hankies in a Game 1 World Series victory over the St. Louis Cardinals.  My dad, Pud – quite the baseball lover, himself – was only half-joking about his omission from those games.  He died April 14 of this year, still longing for one more Twins miracle season.   I’m hoping he saw it. 

Pud always saw the special connect baseball held in the lives of Minnesotans, long before the Metrodome and Twins.  He played and managed town team baseball during the ‘40s and ‘50s, when it was king in rural Minnesota.  Communities planned their weekends around town team ball, with local crowds usually in the hundreds, sometimes in the thousands for big games.  When the Twins arrived in 1961 to Bloomington, it still felt a long ways from the big Twin Cities, so there was an immediate attachment for rural Minnesotans, longing for big-league baseball.

The 1982 move to the dome changed that for a spell.  While we could be assured of a game in 70-degree indoor weather, it was Minneapolis.  Traffic, parking woes, seedy business fronts.  It took some getting used to for those of us in Greater Minnesota.  But as in most sports, winning has a way of taking care of most woes.

There are other grand Metrodome memories.  GFW’s state championship football game in the fall of 1989 was very special, helping to unite the three communities early in the school’s history.  Watching the boys play high school baseball there was nice, and being on the field as a GFW baseball coach was a grand experience.  Even once brought Puddy to a GFW game there. And almost lost him when the wind gust entering the Dome nearly did him in and he slammed up against a cement wall, not wanting to go on. We had to wheel him in on a delivery cart as he moaned about the embarrassment and kept complaining, "God, do we have to do this!" 

But when I think of the Dome, I think of the Twins…and that ugly, yet unique baseball stadium.

Twins baseball remains something special in Minnesota.  While the Vikings actually rule the state of sports here – especially now, especially with Favre – Twins followers have an odd spirituality about the team.  I believe it goes back to that surprising 1987 World Series run, while the Vikes have floundered in their four Super Bowl tries.  But two of our children – Andy and Mikell – had not yet been born.  Andy arrived in 1989, after World Series #1; and our baby, Mikell, was born in 1992, after the classic World Series championship versus the Atlanta Braves.  They only remember Kirby Puckett’s heroics in Game Six and Jack Morris’ 10-inning masterpiece in video.

So the Melius family hasn’t had a lot of opportunities to get all six kids here at once.  Making it even tougher, daughter Ambryn’s been to India twice, and son Matt spent 18 months on the island of Diego Garcia, in the middle of the Indian Ocean.  With Ambryn coming home from her new residency in Seattle, and Matt finally back from San Diego after his five-year Navy stint, the time finally seemed right. With time running out, a last-minute organizational effort – and some pure luck in scheduling – brought the entire Melius clan together.  So, on October 3, for the first and last time, all eight of us gathered to take in a Twins game during the Metrodome’s final weekend.   Meeting at the Mall of America (and that’s an entirely different story), we took the light rail transit into the Dome.

We settled into Section 103 in centerfield, just happy to be a part of the festivities.  We were one of few fans who brought Homer Hankies from days gone by, waving them during Twins’ highlights.  And none was better than Michael Cuddyer’s game-winning home run, which extended Minnesota’s Central Division hopes of catching the Detroit Tigers…again. 

While we all later agreed that Game 163 might have been better, this one was just fine.  For the purpose of this trip wasn’t just baseball.  My wife, Kim, of 30 years, and all six of our children – Ben, Ambryn, Bill, Matt, Andy and Mikell – were together at the Dome.  And I made a special point of looking up at that ugly, discolored Teflon roof and thought of Dad.  Puddy loved the Twins. 

That’s what makes baseball so special, it’s for the generations.  And the Metrodome played host to it all.  So long, dear friend.