Day 22 - 31 of 178 day - South Dakota

      Sunday afternoon, May 26, found us in the burgeoning metropolis of Lusk, Wyoming.  Diedre's brother Doug had told us there was nothing there in Lusk, population 1,500, or half the size of my 3-year high school.  But Doug couldn't have been more wrong ... OK, I suppose he could have been, but still .....   The RV park there was resplendent with lilacs, a mid-west smell we had missed these past 15 years in Arizona.  Linda, then park manager, was a sweetheart, nice but eccentric.  We wouldn't have it any other way.  She walked around the mini-camp with a big umbrella open, although there was not a cloud in sight.  She had great decorations all over the park, and the fact that they were generally anti-man didn't bother me a whit.  Yes, I said "whit."

   

       The crowd roar you probably heard that day came when, at the fine Lusk Municipal Golf Course, I recorded just my 2nd eagle in 57 years.  It happened on the world famous 525 yard 4th hole.  It was a classic example of me hitting my third shot blind to the very elevated green, then not being able to find my ball.  Finally (laughingly), I decided to look in the hole and there it was, my Pinnacle#3 Kilimanjaro Country Club golf ball (That's another story you'll have to ask me about.)  Afterwards, I bought drinks in the clubhouse for everyone: everyone meant Diedre and me, and drinks came courtesy of an antique Coke machine.
     We then had dinner at the luxurious 1-star Lusk Diner (Don't bother Googling a review of it; suffice it to say that when I ordered a "medium-rare' hamburger, the waiter, a look of terror in his eyes, immediately placed his order pad down in front of me and had me sign it, attesting to the fact that I did indeed want my burger medium-rare and that it would be no one's fault but my own if (when) I contracted "Mad Cow" disease).  Fortunately, I managed to make it through the night with just a bit of flatulence, better know as "Annoyed Cow" disease.
     Diedre and I made it to Deadwood, South Dakota, on day 23 of our 178 day Midwest tour.  Deadwood had always held fond memories for me.  When I was in my mid-idiotic 20's, our softball team would often make the 10-hour trek from Minneapolis for the wild, debauchery filled town of Deadwood for the softball tournaments in nearby Spearfish.  There was no gambling back then, but the famous cowboy town did offer many watering holes and, believe it or not, brothels were still legal there, not that I ever engaged in such tomfoolery (Hi, honey).

     My favorite memory, on the field, of those days was when we were playing the South Dakota state champions.  Now, being the South Dakota softball state champion was like being the most honest guy at Enron ... I mean, the bar was just not set that high.  So, we're down one run in the bottom of the last inning.  There are two outs when my buddy Alps gets a hit.  I come up to bat and lace a double to right-center, putting the tying and winning runs on 2nd and 3rd-base.  Our eccentric catcher, Lee Biever was now up.  An old guy (probably 35 at the time), Lee didn't play a lot, but had no lack of confidence.  Their catcher was particularly loud, ragging on Biever about how he was going to make an out and lose the game for us.  Biever called time, stepped out of the box, and smiled at the catcher.  From second, I could hear him clearly and calmly announce to the catcher, "This here's a ... GUARANTEED ... F***ING ... HIT!  The crowd oohed and aahed.  The catcher seemed to shut up.  And sure enough, on the first pitch, Biever rocketed a shot up the middle that almost took me out at second base.  I scrambled back to my feet and, running with everything I had, raced home, sliding across home plate just in time to be called safe.  Biever calmly headed to the dugout and lit up his signature Camels-unfiltered. 

     I don't know whatever happened to him.

 OK, it was Memorial Day evening when we got to Deadwood.  We had driven the last 10 miles through the mountainous Black Hills terrain in a total fog.  Of course, people say I'm in a fog most of the time anyway.  Either way, we made it.  We had drinks and dinner at the infamous Number 10 Saloon where the legendary Wild Bill Hickok was shot to death while playing poker..  The saloon still displays Wild Bill's death chair and a framed copy of the cards making up "The Dead Man's Hand (two pair, aces and eights).

Walking the streets of Deadwood that night, Diedre once again strayed.  It wasn't enough that she had kissed that troglodyte coal miner in Silverton (see Colorado blog).  But now, since I failed to compliment her on that morning's breakfast, I caught her cozying up to another pretty boy.  I think this guy goes by the name "Not-So Wild Bill."

     Of our three cats traveling with us, we only have a problem with our middle child.  Casey, a Birman cat, is a real sweetie ... except at 4 a.m. when he has become our alarm clock.  Is there such a thing as "cat insomnia"?  Anyway, Tuesday we were up bright and early.  I spent most of the day finishing the Colorado blog; if I'd known the weather was going to be so bad, I'd have gone out and seen the town.  As it was, I only made it out for my 3-miles walk which ended at a vending machine at a local chocolate store.  Amazingly, it was dispensing truffles ... not sugar-free, much to my chagrin.  It was called ... wait for it ... "Chub-O-Matic."  Nice, huh? 

     That evening, I put troubled cat Casey to the test.  I got out "bird," a toy over which he goes absolutely bonkers.  I had him chasing it till well after midnight, exhausting me as well as him.  I then gave all 3 cats a nice late night snack.  Miracle of miracles, they let us sleep through the night.  I hope we're on to something here, although it just seems too easy.  We'll test it again soon.

     On Wednesday, we had lunch with Peg and Pete , a couple we had never actually met in person.  Peg is Barbara McBain's cousin, an actress who has been directed by Diedre.  They're full-timers, meaning they have no land-line home.  They proceeded to give us some tips about RV'ing full time.  If we were to become full-timers, I'd compare us with being gypsies.  Of course, if we're going to be gypsies, I'd have to brush up on my money-making talents, such as pick-pocketing.  After all, somebody's got to pay for that gas.

   
     Rain started as soon as they left the restaurant and didn't let up for 3 days.  In fact, Rapid City had an all-time record for rain for May 29 with 7 inches.  It's funny, but living in Arizona these past 16 years, I've come to miss the rain on the roof.  In Minnesota in our upstairs bedroom, there was a skylight right over our bed, so any rain storm was accompanied by the soothing sound of rain on the roof.  It always made it easy for me to sleep.  But in Arizona, not only does it never rain, but when it does (I know, I know!) our roof is so solid that you hear nothing.  So it was actually pretty nice that night to hear the rain on the roof of our beloved AB1.  It made it easy to sleep.  Of course, there are limits because ... it never stopped (almost).

  

Thursday the rain continued; the animals were starting to pair up 2x2.  To get out of our funk, we had dinner at "Jake's," Kevin Costner's restaurant at the Midnight Star in beautiful downtown Deadwood; his adjoining sports bar is loaded with his movie memorabilia.  I especially love how often Costner worked on baseball movies.   "Bull Durham" and "Field of Dreams" are two of my favorites.  Diedre tends to side with the golf movies.  Here she is with Costner's golf bag from "Tin Cup."

     We've eaten there twice before over the past 25 years.  We absolutely love their Cajun Seafood Tortellini and order it every time.  It's not on my diet, but it's so good that Food Sheriff Diedre allowed my to use my 1/month cheat to order it.  It was definitely worth it.  Of course to make up for it, I have to eat cardboard and old shoes for the rest of the month.  Diedre says it's a fiber-carbohydrate thing.  I just do as I'm told.

     The rain kept up again through the night and the wind increased to gale-force, good if it's blowing out to left-field, not so good if you're in an RV or a Kansas farmhouse on its way to Oz.  It was so strong, we pulled our slides in.  It was like sleeping in a hallway.  Giant cat Charlie slept on the floor, making it near impossible to get to the rest room in the middle of the night.

     Friday it was still raining; I was then waiting for the next plague, not being able to remember if it's frogs, locusts, or I.R.S. auditors.  We were going to drive to Spearfish to see a movie but weren't sure when low tide was.  Diedre wanted to stay home and play "Full-Contact Mah-Jongg."   The three kids were ever so happy to just stay in bed and attack stray toes.

  


 Saturday we gave praise to the heavens as the rains finally ceased.  We quickly got out to venture up to see the Mount Moriah cemetery which houses Wild Bill Hickok and Calamity Jane's graves.

 We also ventured up 750' above the rest of the cemetery to pay our respects to Deadwood's greatest hero and supporter, sheriff Seth Bullock.  Although the town doggedly hangs on to the story of Wild Bill, Bullock was actually the man who did more for the city. 

   





After our joyous day of grave-hopping, we again retreated to the Number 10 Saloon where we watched an incredible re-enactment of the shooting of Wild Bill, "incredible" being the operative word here as in "incredib-LEE BAD!"  Oh, here's a suggestion for you kids at home: don't watch a bad re-enactment sitting next to a director (read: Diedre).  Try as she might, she could not stop from telling me how she would have directed it and what the actors were doing wrong, which was pretty much everything.  It was all I could do to wrestle her out of there before she could begin questioning the Wild Bill actor about what his motivation was for what he was (or wasn't) doing.  I mean, I could roll with the punches of a bad re-enactment, even laughing at the parts that weren't supposed to be funny.  Not so with "The Theatre Sheriff."

     Bad went to worse as the "Murder of Wild Bill" theme continued on into the evening.  We went to the ancient Deadwood Mason's Lodge where for the senior-discounted rate of $4, we were privy to that off-off-off- ... (extend "off" 83 times) ... Broadway production of "The Trial of Jack McCall."  Jack was the coward who, after first speaking with his intended victim at the Number 10 Saloon poker table, brazenly shot Wild Bill in the back of the head in front of no less than a dozen on-lookers and then ... wait for it .... WAS ACQUITTED a day later by a miner's jury.  The alleged "play" included some humor (intended or otherwise) along with 3 guitar playing singers and a liberal amount of audience participation (hence the "$4 ticket cost).

Diedre seemed satisfied with the efforts of only one actor, that said thespian being herself, as she did a Tony-Award worthy performance of Ira Goldberg, a supporter of Mr. McCall's.  By the end of the show, Diedre was ready to abandon our 6-month RV safari, sell all our worldly possessions, and take over the running of the Wild Bill Theatre operation with me writing all new scripts that would, unexplainably, include frequent mentions of Phoenix's Sheriff Joe Arpaio and "Spam" (the pseudo-meat, not the computer annoyance).  I dragged her kicking and screaming from the theatre, saving our way of life only by bringing her back to reality with a large oral application of Old Overholt Rye Whiskey and a shmear of Brie under her nose.  She seemed to calm down when I dragged her into a memorabilia store featuring her three favorites: Marilyn Monroe, Betty Boop, and, strangely enough, Shemp of the Three Stooges.

      It's not well known, but the legendary Broadway musical, "Oklahoma," actually stole it's theme song from a little known play called "South Dakota" based on the central part of the state.  The song originally went like this:

          "SOUUUUTHH Dakota where the land lies flatter than most mats!

                There are sheep and cows

                      and lady pigs called sows

                            and the corn is stored in giant vats!"

Or something like that ... anyway ...

     In Colorado, I had found out a few things I didn't know I had in common with my ballplayer buddy, Bruce Stricklett: during a horrible tornado that nearly flattened Omaha, Nebraska, in 1976, I was in town with my United States Army Reserve unit doing summer camp duty.  Bruce was working in town for U.P.S. at the same time.  One gust of tornado could have literally thrown us together.  Then again, in 1987, a tornado of another kind: the Minnesota Twins won game 7 of the World Series for their first World Championship.  Bruce was at the game while I had raced into town with friends to join in on the celebration.  I'm sure we passed, not silently in the night, on Hennepin Avenue amidst all the revelers and baseball fanatics.

   

So, too, did I have a baseball similarity with Arizona softball teammate Jerry Mason of Frankfort, South Dakota: the Milwaukee Braves.  Jerry was a lifelong fan of theirs, with Eddie Mathews being his boyhood hero.  Mine was Hank Aaron; I even learned to read because of Hank; my Mom showed me how to read the newspaper so I could see what Hank had done each day in the box score.  On a hunting trip to South Dakota, Hank had even slept in Jerry's bed as a guest of the family.  I tried to buy the 60-year old bed from Jerry, but he wouldn't have any of it.

     OK, I'm getting ahead of myself.  On Sunday, we now made our way to the teeming metropolis of Doland, South Dakota, home of my Arizona softball buddy Jerry Mason, and his wife Shiela (that is not a misspelling).  Doland is near Redfield, SD, the ring-neck pheasant capital of the world.  Interesting note: the ring-neck pheasant is not native to South Dakota; it was imported here from China in 1931, and its numbers have flourished ever since.  Ah, the things you learn reading this furshlugginer blog.

     Frankfort is a bit confused; the entering-from-the-west town sign states the population as "297" while the sign from the east claims it's "306."  Many a bar fight has started over this fact.  In Doland, you're either a "297er" or a "306er."  Families have been torn asunder by this; why, 297-girls are not even allowed to date 306-boys.

    

The Mason's own a massive farm, some 20,000 acres.  It's not the end of the world, although you can see it from their front porch.  Even our GPS had trouble locating the Mason farmstead, directing us instead to a Howard Johnson's 8 miles away.  Jerry and Shiela raised cattle, pigs, and three children; I'm not sure which ones were the toughest to housebreak.  Jerry also grew soybeans and corn, and I'm not sure, but I think Shiela did a little bauxite mining on the side.  They really have quite the incredible place and have done extremely well for themselves over the years, which go back to their meeting in the 7th grade.  Jerry even gave Diedre and me an "Agriculture-101" course on farming.  By the end of our stay, I was fluent in corn-dryer speak while Diedre got her Combine-driving license (that errant trip through the neighbor's petunia garden not withstanding).  She can even whip up a batch of ethanol (corn based) on the RV stove-top, so now instead of stopping at gas stations, we just sneak into cornfields at night to keep AB1 running. 

    The first evening, Jerry and I decided to walk around the place; it took us 4 days.  As we were out in the middle of his marijua ... I mean, "hemp" field, we both heard a voice, a whisper really, that announced, "If you build it, he will come."  Well, that was all that Jerry needed to hear.  Within a day, he had cleared a massive amount of the marijua ... I mean, hemp field and had built it ... a 50' tall Pai-Gow table.  And then miraculously, through the corn field, emerged his late father ... only in the body of a middle-aged Chinese businessman.  It was very confusing. 

    Attached see a photo of Jerry and me and his silo; the tall one is the silo.  Note well, Kenny Sheffield, that I am not only wearing your exquisitely designed purple Rockies senior-softball jersey, but have also donned the required "white" softball sleeves (Inside softball reference) favored by softball enthusiasts and clothing designers everywhere.

     Jerry is a great guy and a fine ballplayer.  In one tournament in Peoria, AZ, last winter, he hit key home runs in the last inning in three-consecutive games, all blasts that either won or tied each game, thus giving him the nickname: 7th INNING LIGHTNING!  It seems, however, that I'm the only one who calls him that.

     Wife Shiela is no slouch when it comes to the sporting field.  Back at Doland High in 19??, she set the school record in the shot-put with a throw of 38'10.5".  Jerry said it's the "unofficial" school record, so one afternoon while the four of us were getting drunk on chocolate-vanilla custard and Turtle Sundaes, we declared it the official Culver's Ice Cream school record.  So now she has that going for her.

Alexx is praying to the Glucose-Gods to let him pass the  test for one scoop.

     Jerry is an incredible hunter.  He has a big-game room that is not to be believed.  He has over 25 mounted heads on display, although I did think stuffing the Monarch butterfly he hit with his car was a bit much.  He's made three trips to Africa where he bagged a kudu and an oryx; it seems he only goes after animals with names Kent Hrbek can spell.   .   

    

Since shortly after my heart surgery in January of 2012, I have pledged to walk 3 miles every day, except when I play my idiot softball games or hack my way around a gold course.  Either way, I must do something active every day, or else go sleep with the fishes.  Well, on Monday the 3rd in Doland, I did my my 500th consecutive day of my workout streak; placed end to end, my consecutive walking streak would have gotten me from Doland, South Dakota, to my home in Cave Creek, Arizona.  And of course, doing it that way, my miles per gallon would be much improved.  Jerry joined me on my historic walk as we walked down the highway in front of his farm.  Dozens of people drove by and waved, all of them either relatives or high school classmates of the Masons.

     As part of the celebration of the big day (we're still waiting to see if it becomes a state holiday), Jerry and Shiela took us to the Terry Redlin Museum and Gallery in Watertown, SD, about 50 miles away.  We didn't know who Redlin was, but as soon as we saw his work, we recognized his genius right away.  A painter of outdoors scenes from his childhood, he has the innate ability to bring you into his world immediately.  His works of art take you right away back to a beautiful and simpler time.  With his use of ducks in almost every picture, he was especially relevant to me, as noted by my e-mail address (AlexDUCK@Cox.net).  Redlin was voted America's top artist every year from 1992-97 and it's easy to see why.  The museum, a dead ringer for George Washington's Mount Vernon, is free to the public and is one of the best art museums I've ever seen.  It's highly recommended by all of us..

     Once back in Doland, we stopped at the childhood homes of two of South Dakota's greatest names: Shiela Mason and Hubert Humphrey.  They inspired awe.  One of Shiela's brothers now owns their home and runs it as a hunting lodge.  There's ample space as Shiela grew up there with 7 kids in the family.  I don't know how may kids were in the Humphrey family.

      The nice weather finally returned to us on Tuesday, so it was out to Fisher Grove Country Club, Jerry and Shiela's home course and the only 10-hole course in captivity.  It's 10 holes because for quite a few years, the nearby James River overflowed its banks in the spring and flooded the course's 9th hole.  Fed up after about the 3rd flooding, the club members built a new 9th hole.  And then as fate would have it, the flooding stopped and they now had an extra hole.  So on that Tuesday, the four of us played 10 holes.

     As in softball, Jerry hits the golf ball a long way.  And also as in softball, everything is hit to the left.  Shiela is a riot to golf with.  She plays like she has books due at the library.  

     After golf, we were driving through Jerry's real hometown of Frankfort, SD, when I suddenly hollered out "SQUIRREL!"  That's Diedre's joke about me.  If you saw the wonderful animated movie "Up," you'll remember that the villain's dogs had the ability to speak.  And no matter what dastardly deed they were up to, they would always be distracted if they saw a squirrel.  And that's what they would yell: SQUIRREL!.  Similarly, whenever we're driving, I have a habit of always noticing baseball fields and notifying Diedre of them.  And of course, she began equating it with the dogs yelling "SQUIRREL," so now whenever I (we) see a baseball field, we yell out "SQUIRREL!"  Of course, that startled the Masons.  The field we stopped at was one that Jerry had played at for years and had even started a men's league there that he ran for 16 years.  Shiela would work concessions, Jerry's grandfather would do the score-keeping and announcing, and Jerry's mother even paid for the lights that are still in use at the fields.  It's quite the nice little ballpark.

     Not exhausted enough by our challenging them to a golf scramble, the Masons kept at it that night; Shiela golfed again, this time with her women's league, while Jerry and I drove the requisite 50 miles to play softball in Aberdeen, SD.  To clarify, Jerry played, I kept score.  I will now say that the coldest winter day I ever spent was Tuesday, June 4, in Aberdeen, South Dakota.  It didn't help any that Jerry's doubleheader was scheduled for 8:30 and 9:30 at night.  His league had no age limit, so seniors were competing against high school kids.  And it must have been a while since I've played in a young-man's league, because they now allow STEALING in slow pitch after the pitched ball crosses the plate.  That was fun to watch; even our 62-year old Jerry managed to steal second, although I think I could have timed him with a calendar.  

     It's Wednesday now, and we're headed back to our home turf in the Minneapolis, Minnesota, area.  We'll be there till June 23 when we take off for Michigan.  So next blog, you'll get all the dirt about the goings-on of our plucky band of travelers in the Gopher State.  Until then ... Blog on, Garth!

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Hi All!  Diedre here with just a quick addition.  When we were in Estes Park, a complete stranger taught Chris Stricklett and me how to use the Panorama button on our phone cameras.  So I just had to add this panorama pic of Jerry's Frankfort ballpark.  If you look closely you can see Alexx in the outfield.  Once I get the hang of best uses of this camera feature you might be seeing more of it in the blog.  You kinda have to squint to get past the fuzziness of this photo.  And yes, to the answer of many of your questions...we are having a great time!!!  Hope to see you on the road!