This isn’t a football story. This is one of those that happens when you aren’t paying attention.
It was a tough opening-night slugfest, but South Adams walked away on the wrong end of a 45-27 final against Eastside.
South Adams football coach Grant Moser pauses for a moment that won’t last
Both squads traded blows for four quarters in a physical, bruising battle where nothing came easy.
Even with the sting of the loss, South Adams coach Grant Moser kept it real.
That’s one of the thousands of reasons Grant has become a dear friend; he’s super funny, he’s authentic and all-around good man.
He needs little reminder of what actually matters.
Even so, he got that reminder. Mid-conversation, his daughter came sprinting across the field toward him. He paused, excused himself for a moment to catch up with her, and then stepped right back into the interview.
Even a cynical, sarcastic, game-hardened reporter like me can’t help getting a little caught up in that.
Hang tight, Coach. The days go by fast.
My own ride, the one with a racecar named Dakota, ends in May at graduation. WOW.
Friday, David Bohmer will talk about Noble County native Ford Frick, and honestly, it’s about time. Most people only know his name from that wooden sign on U.S. 6 between Kendallville and Ligonier. Frick Lumber remembers him. Not many others do. Around here, his whole legacy gets reduced to a couple of dates and a job title, nothing about the guy who helped shape baseball into what it is now.
The Community Learning Center in Kendallville wants to fix that.
From 11 a.m. to 1 p.m., it’ll host Bohmer for a two‑hour look at how a kid from Noble County helped push Major League Baseball into the modern age.
Bohmer spent years digging into Frick’s life for his new book, Ford Frick: Baseball’s Third Commissioner and His Four Decades of Shaping the Game. He has taught journalism for many years and was once the director of DePauw’s Pulliam Center for Contemporary Media. He is using all that experience to tell Frick’s story well, especially in the place where Frick grew up.
What he might not say directly, I will.
A vintage baseball card featuring Ford Frick, who served as Commissioner of Baseball
Frick was one of the most important people in baseball history who never played the game.
Most fans only know the basics. He was commissioner from 1951 to 1965. Before that, he ran the National League. That’s the easy stuff, the headline version of his life.
What they don’t know is everything that came before. They don’t know he ghostwrote for Babe Ruth, helping shape the Babe’s public voice when he was the biggest star in America. They don’t know he hosted a New York morning show called Musical Clock. They don’t know he was one of the first radio sports voices in the country, giving daily reports on WOR when teams still thought radio would hurt ticket sales.
They don’t know he wrote nationally syndicated baseball columns while climbing the league ladder.
They don’t know he handled public relations for the National League while becoming one of the sport’s most trusted storytellers.
And they definitely don’t know he did all of this at the same time: broadcasting, writing, ghostwriting, league work, and building the résumé long before he ever got the title.
That’s the part that gets lost.
Reduce him to a job title, and you miss the whole person.
Frick didn’t just end up running baseball; he built toward it across different jobs, different mediums, and different decades. If you don’t know that part, you don’t know him.
And he was at the helm when baseball was going through its most significant changes.
The sport was stretching, shifting, and figuring out what it wanted to be, and he was the one steadying it as everything around him moved.
Start with the obvious: Frick helped give baseball structure. The 162‑game schedule — the one every season uses now — didn’t just appear. He pushed for it and made it standard. It’s one of those decisions people forget about because it works so well.
He also helped open the map.
In 1958, the Dodgers moved to Los Angeles and the Giants moved to San Francisco, and baseball suddenly jumped from two time zones to three. That turned the sport from an East‑and‑Midwest thing into a national one. Then came expansion with the Angels and the new Senators in 1961, followed by the Mets and the Colt .45s in 1962. This gave baseball a coast‑to‑coast presence that changed everything: money, travel, TV, and the league’s entire structure.
He strengthened the Hall of Fame, too. As National League president, he supported the idea of creating a permanent home to preserve baseball history. Later, as commissioner, he helped shape the voting rules and standards so it wouldn’t turn into a popularity contest. He believed the Hall should mean something, and he worked to make sure it did.
And then there’s the asterisk.
When the schedule increased from 154 to 162 games in 1961, he decided that Babe Ruth’s 60 home runs during 154 games should remain the record. Any new record set in the longer season, such as Roger Maris’s 61, had to be listed separately. That decision sparked the Maris controversy and stayed in place until 1991. Through all of it, Frick’s goal was simple: keep the record book clear and keep the history straight.
And you can argue integration would’ve taken longer without Frick’s quiet support. After years of opposition under Commissioner Kennesaw Mountain Landis, Branch Rickey faced a hostile environment. When National League players tried to start a petition to keep Jackie Robinson off the field, Frick stopped it right away. If they refused to play with Robinson, he told them, they wouldn’t play at all. It wasn’t loud, but it removed the last internal barrier. Without that moment, the timeline almost certainly changes.
Add it all up, and calling him one of the top builders of modern Major League Baseball isn’t a stretch; it’s the truth.
And he was one of ours.
A small‑town Indiana kid who worked his way up. Not bad for a kid from Brimfield.
By Dean Jackson News-Sun WOODBURN — Big-time players do whatever it takes to win, and Grace Swank proved that notion again Tuesday, leading Central Noble to a 4-0, nine-inning win over Woodlan in the Class 2A softball regional.
It was the team’s third straight playoff shutout.
The Cougars (17-7) advance to the Class 2A semi-state in Kokomo this Saturday, when they will face Western Boone (20-7) in an 11 a.m. semifinal opener.
Swank was practically untouchable, striking out 20 Warriors and allowing just two hits across nine scoreless innings.
Woodlan entered the game averaging more than nine runs a contest.
She also delivered the swing that finally pushed Central Noble ahead in the top of the ninth, drilling a line-drive double to left to score sister Gwen Swank for the first run of the night.
Central Noble coach David Pearson said he was always letting her run: “I wasn’t stopping her. There was no stopping her, and Woodlan had to make that play. That is the championship.”
That swing flipped a game the Cougars had controlled in pressure moments, but couldn’t finish until the ninth.
Swank held Woodlan hitless through 4 1/3 innings and scoreless for the duration. She allowed only two singles and no walks, striking out the side in both the fifth and seventh innings.
“My rise ball, that’s my money pitch. My curve was also on,” Swank said, estimating she threw the rise nearly 80% of the time. “As long as they kept staying under it, I was going to keep throwing it.”
Even as the innings stacked up and the pressure tightened, Swank said she never doubted the breakthrough was coming.
Central Noble didn’t just threaten early — they lived on the edge of breaking the game open for nearly two hours. The Cougars reached third base five different times before finally breaking through in the ninth.
Gwen Swank stood on third with one out in the fifth inning before a single and a walk loaded the bases, only for a groundout and a strikeout to end the threat.
Pearson said none of those missed opportunities rattled his team.
“Sure, we left the bases loaded…” he said, adding that the Cougars trusted the next opportunity more than the last.
“Their heart — that’s how they won. They wanted it,” Pearson said.
Woodlan showed a pulse in the fifth, putting runners on second and third with one out — their best look at the scoreboard all night. It didn’t matter. Grace Swank turned the inning into her own personal statement, striking out three straight hitters to erase the threat with cold precision.
Woodlan starter Lucy McHenry matched Swank early, keeping Central Noble scoreless for eight innings and holding them hitless until the third. She worked out of repeated traffic, including the bases‑loaded jam, and kept the game tied until the ninth.
McHenry finished with eight-plus innings, allowing seven hits and three earned runs with five walks and eight strikeouts before giving way to Sophia Martin in the ninth.
Molly Mann finished 2‑for‑4, driving in a run with a single to center that pushed the lead to 2–0. She also added a stolen base earlier in the game.
Kaitlyn Tilley matched Mann with a 2‑for‑4 night of her own, including a hard‑hit single to second to drive in the third run during the ninth‑inning surge.
Katie Forker went 0‑for‑3 but contributed a key RBI, grounding out to first to score Tilley and extend the lead to 4–0.
Dean Jackson | For The Journal Gazette May 29, 2026
Dean Lehrman ended his coaching career Thursday with a loss in the baseball sectional. There’s plenty to say about his career which began in 1979 at Woodlan and continued at Heritage beginning in 1986. You don’t start with 700‐plus baseball wins when you talk about Dean Lehrman. That’s way too small. You don’t start with the sectional titles, the conference championships, or the years he kept Heritage baseball strong when other small‐school programs faded. Heritage’s Bob Yager—watching how leaders carry themselves and build boys into men. That’s where culture starts: doing the right thing, showing it, living it, letting kids see what steadiness looks like up close. Mine started in 1983 at Woodlan, in an eighth‐grade math room, with me still counting on my fingers and toes while everyone else was doing algebra. It was the room where kids finished early because they were that far ahead. Then came the test. It said “Addition.” My brain said, “Subtraction.” And off I went. Forty minutes later, I was well on my way to the most earnest D or D‐ in the history of Indiana education. I was sweating like it was the SAT while the mathletes were turning in their papers and leaving the room like they were running small corporations. I was still working on it when the bell rang. And here’s where you learn who Dean Lehrman was. He didn’t sigh. He didn’t embarrass me. He just said, quietly, “You can come back and finish it during study hall.” He also knew I wasn’t going to cheat. I wasn’t that clever. He could see — even if I couldn’t I was a kid who needed a little help, some TLC, and a second chance. He’s not the only person who made time for me, but he understood that help comes from below the surface of the obvious. It wasn’t a math problem. It was a reading problem wrapped in panic, and he treated it — and me — with dignity. Fast‐forward a couple of years. I was a sophomore manager. Not a player. Not a star. Just a kid who loved being around the game. And then — for reasons I still can’t explain — I quit. Just walked away. Most coaches would’ve shrugged. Most would’ve let me go. Not Dean Lehrman. A few days later, he found me in the hall and pulled me aside. Not to talk me out of it. Not to guilt me. Not to lecture me. He just talked to me. A couple of questions. No pressure. No heat. Just that steady Lehrman tone that made you want to be better without him ever saying it. I was back in less than three days. And he never brought it up again. For the next 40‐plus years, every time we crossed paths — fields, Christmas parties, and press boxes — and near him in the dugout, once, he was warm, engaging, and encouraging. I wasn’t the kid who quit. I was the kid who came back. And he treated me that way for the rest of my life. And, you know … somewhere along the way, he helped take two little county schools all the way to the state finals. Woodlan football in 1981 as an assistant. Heritage baseball in 2007 as the head man. Forty‐eight years on the sideline, amassing 742 wins. More ACAC titles, sectionals, regionals, and semi‐states than he ever bothered to count. Three halls of fame recognized him — the state coaches’ hall, the Northeast Indiana hall, and Heritage’s own — mostly because he knew how to find people, find the missing piece, and push kids to another level. Hall of Fame career, sure. But that’s not the story. The story is that he made a kid come back and never want to quit again.
Dean Jackson is a veteran writer and broadcaster of more than 30 years in Northeast Indiana.
Ag journalist Clinton Griffiths is an anchor and editor for AgDay and Farm Journal Magazine
HUNTINGTON – University leaders, supporters, donors, students, and friends gathered December 4 to celebrate the 10th Annual Harvest Banquet at Huntington University.
It was a look back at the first decade of the Haupert Institute for Agricultural Studies, but it was also a chance to remember the mission behind the program.
What began a decade ago as a small cohort of aspiring Ag students is now the university’s fastest-growing program, with more than 100 students in agribusiness, animal science, crop science, and agricultural education. Since its first graduating class in 2019, there been 70 graduates with Ag degrees.
The evening’s reflections were about faith in God, grit, and getting it done and delivered by Ag journalist Clinton Griffiths.
Griffiths should know. He has lived it. He still sees it.
He’s an anchor and editor for AgDay Television and Farm Journal Magazine. The New Mexico native grew up in 4-H and FFA and now lives on a farm in New Carlisle, Indiana, with his wife and three children. He has generations of farming and ranching in his blood.
His message ignored the typical headlines about markets, South American forecasts, and USDA programs. Instead, he focused on what he called “The Quiet Miracle.” Those acts of service and endurance that often go unnoticed.
Griffiths urged the audience to recognize the unheralded acts of service that define small-town America. For him, the greatest miracles are not always flashy or publicized; instead, they are living quietly next door.
And no matter where he goes to report, he finds himself repeating stories of neighbors rebuilding homes after disaster, churches gathering for collective work, and families stepping in to prevent others from faltering.
“Whenever hard things happen, people pitch in,” Griffiths emphasized. “They show up, they get work done, and they help families move on. That’s a special part of living here and covering this industry that doesn’t get enough attention.”
Clinton Griffiths shared insights on the agricultural community during the 10th Annual Harvest Banquet at Huntington University.
His deep understanding of the agricultural community’s spirit resonated, affirming the value of grit.
Griffiths said that the farmer shows a special, simple formula for success: “Grit is passion plus perseverance.” This explains why farmers stay committed and never give up. They keep going through market trials and tough weather, like last season’s weeks-long drought in Indiana.
He told his own family story. That of his great-grandfather in New Mexico. Facing the devastation of the Dust Bowl, the elder Griffiths spent four grueling years dedicated to building a dam—a piece of infrastructure that today brings water to 44,000 acres, an area that was once virtually a desert.
In the process, his work also saved his own farm and his family, who barely had a prayer to live on.
“You don’t know the work you’re doing today and how it will affect generations to come,” he cautioned the audience. The pain and struggle, he explained, are not wasted; they become the solid foundation upon which future generations build and thrive.”
Griffiths drove home the mud to describe life’s inevitable difficulties, describing it as sometimes slippery, sticky, or solid. Yet, being stuck is never the end. It is merely a reminder—a call to find new goals and let life roll forward. “You need bad days to have good days,” he concluded, a stark message to anyone who’s spent time in Ag—an industry built on cyclical hardship and renewal.
He drove home the same message. The rural community’s ability to thrive is in being committed to getting it done in the good times and bad and picking up the slack when someone else needs a hand.
“Miracles live in the everyday—especially in rural America,” Griffiths concluded. “They’re not loud, not flashy. But they’re real. And they’re what keep us alive.”
In 1918, Auburn, Indiana, residents Rollie Zeider (left) and Everett Scott stood on opposite sides of the World Series.
AUBURN — Imagine a time when war, sickness, and money worries made everything crazy. That’s what the 1918 World Series was like—totally different from any baseball championship before or since.
But for a small town Auburn, Indiana, it was even more special.
Two famous baseball players, Rollie Zeider and Everett Scott, lived just a few blocks from each other. They played for different teams, but they ended up facing each other in one of the weirdest and quietest World Series ever.
Chad Gramling, an Auburn historian and author, was stunned when he discovered the connection.
“I was a little surprised myself, to be honest,” he said. “I think I had heard that they had moved here, but I thought it was just a rumor. I’d never seen it written down anywhere.”
Gramling, who wrote books like Baseball in Fort Wayne and Legendary Locals of Auburn, recently shared this story at Auburn’s Eckhart Public Library. He looked through old records and listened to local stories to keep the history of the area’s sports and community alive.
What he found wasn’t just a rumor—it was a quiet but amazing discovery. In 1918, Zeider and Scott weren’t just visiting Auburn. They lived there. And in that very same year, they played against each other in the World Series.
“I saw it in some newspaper articles from 1918,” Gramling said. “I also found their addresses in an old phone book from that time.”
Scott lived on Ninth Street. Zeider’s farm was off First Street, in what is now the Greenbrier neighborhood. “They were eight or nine blocks apart,” Gramling said. “You could almost see Rollie’s farm from where Everett Scott lived.”
It’s pretty amazing how close they lived and that it happened at the same time.
Rollie Zeider: The Smartest Player in Baseball
Rollie Zeider was born in Auburn in 1883. He played in the major leagues for nine seasons, mostly for teams in Chicago like the White Sox, the Cubs, and a team called the Chicago Whales. He was known more for being able to play many different positions and for being smart about baseball than for hitting a lot of home runs. He even became captain of the White Sox in his first year.
“A captain back then was probably more like a coach today,” Gramling explained. “They made up the signals, decided the batting order, and talked to the umpires. Rollie was well-liked all over baseball. People often called him one of the smartest players in the sport.”
Zeider’s career was all about smart strategies and being tough. He played every position in the infield, stole bases, and was known for his clever plays. After baseball, he came back to Auburn and lived a life that matched his baseball reputation—he was clever, started businesses, and was sometimes a little grumpy.
“He wasn’t just playing baseball,” Gramling said. “He was running businesses even while he was playing.”
Zeider owned a pool hall, ran a place that became the Railroad Inn, and was known locally as “Polly” because of his bird-like nose. He owned rental cabins on Hamilton Lake, ran an ice cream shop in Waterloo, and even collected garbage for Auburn. “He was probably also a real estate person of some kind,” Gramling added. Zeider even ran for DeKalb County Sheriff twice.
He had a colorful reputation. “He was known as one of the best trash talkers in baseball,” Gramling said. “There’s a story where he tricked a young pitcher into throwing him the ball while he was coaching at third base. He just stepped aside and let it roll to the fence. The runner scored.”
Zeider didn’t play much in the 1918 World Series for the Cubs. He played in 27 games that season and only a little in the Series. But his being there was the last part of a career that went through an old era of baseball, a league war, and when Babe Ruth started to become famous.
Everett Scott: The Iron Man Before Gehrig
Everett Scott was born in Bluffton in 1892. By 1918, he was the everyday shortstop for the Boston Red Sox. He was steady, could play a lot, and was respected. That year, he played in all six games of the World Series, helping his team’s defense, which only allowed six runs.
Scott’s connection to Auburn wasn’t well-known until Gramling found it. “I can confirm that around 1918 and into the 1920s, the Scotts lived in Auburn,” he said.
Scott’s career was all about being consistent. From 1916 to 1925, he played in 1,307 games in a row, which was a major league record until Lou Gehrig broke it in 1933. “Before there was Ripken, there was Gehrig. Before there was Gehrig, there was Scott,” Gramling said.
Scott won three World Series titles—one with Boston and two with the Yankees. And he was team captain in New York. He was a quiet but strong leader. He wasn’t a great hitter, but he was reliable in the field and could play for a very long time without missing games.
In 1918, Scott was only 25. He lived on Ninth Street in Auburn and played shortstop for a Red Sox team led by Babe Ruth, who pitched 17 innings without giving up any runs in the Series and drove in important runs. Outfielder Harry Hooper scored three of Boston’s nine runs. Cubs pitcher Grover Cleveland Alexander, who would become a Hall of Famer, was in the Army and didn’t play.
A World Series Like No Other
The 1918 World Series was played in early September—much earlier than usual. The government’s “work or fight” rule made baseball end the season early. Players were worried they wouldn’t get paid. Game 4 was delayed because of a strike. The Spanish flu was spreading. And both Boston and Chicago were known for gambling.
“There was a lot going on in the world,” Gramling said. “People actually thought that baseball might not survive.”
There weren’t as many good players. Some athletes joined the Army. Others took jobs in steel mills to avoid being drafted. Factory leagues started, as those factories saw baseball as important work. “There weren’t as many good players in organized baseball at the time,” Gramling said.
Boston’s win was quiet. Not many people came to the games. The money they made from tickets was disappointing. But for Auburn, the series was a rare moment when their town was important to the whole country. Two men from the same town—one an experienced player, the other a rising star who could play many games in a row—played in a championship that was shaped by the urgency of war and how strong baseball was.
A Local League, Born from History
Zeider and Scott did play with the Camp Taylor Stars Game at League Park in Fort Wayne. That exhibition featured regional and national talent, including Zeider, Scott, and Walter “Butch” Henline, a Fort Wayne native who played in the majors from 1921 to 1931 for the Giants, Phillies, Robins, and White Sox and later became an umpire.
Gramling is still looking for details on Zeider and Scott. “I’m basically just brushing off the top layer of dirt right now,” Gramling said. “I have a lot more digging to do to find the rest of it.”
Sidebars
Everett Scott played 1,307 consecutive games—a streak that began on June 20, 1916, and ended on May 6, 1925, when Yankees manager Miller Huggins started rookie shortstop Pee Wee Wanninger. The very next day, Lou Gehrig pinch-hit for Wanninger, quietly beginning a streak that would redefine durability in baseball.
Most fans mark Gehrig’s streak from June 2, 1925, when he famously replaced Wally Pipp at first base. That’s the moment etched in baseball lore. But the true beginning was May 31, 1925—when Gehrig stepped in for Wanninger, the same player who had just ended Scott’s ironman run.
May 6, 1925: Everett Scott’s streak ends.
May 31, 1925: Gehrig pinch-hits for Wanninger—the streak begins quietly.
June 2, 1925: Gehrig replaces Pipp—the streak becomes permanent.
Gehrig’s streak would stretch to 2,130 games, surpassing Scott and standing for 56 years until Cal Ripken Jr. broke it in 1995.
Scott and Gehrig shared the Yankees clubhouse from 1923 to 1925. One set the standard. The other made it immortal.
#USSIndiana reposted from 10/1/2018 when I covered the launch of the submarine at Port Canavaral, Fla.
This will be my final post about the USS Indiana. Honestly, I’m not sure covering a Super Bowl or World Series would ever feel as meaningful to me as this.
Why?
Yes, it’s a statement of technology and military might—but that fades. The USS Indiana isn’t just a submarine. It’s not just a weapon. To me, it’s an idea. Maybe that sounds naive, flowery, or unrealistic. But it represents something deeper: that we, as a people, will spare nothing to protect our way of life.
No price too high. No sacrifice too great. No task too tall.
This isn’t a conservative, moderate, or liberal thought. It’s not spiritual or agnostic dogma. It’s a belief rooted in our shared identity. We are far from a perfect Union.
But we will be:
The best
The strongest
The fastest
The most prepared
And the most determined
We will never seek a fight—but we will never be afraid to fight. And we will win. We must win. Not out of nationalistic pride or chest-thumping bravado, but because there is no alternative.
It reminds me of that mythical quote often attributed to Alexis de Tocqueville—though he probably never said it: “If America ever ceases to be good, she will cease to be great.”
If we aren’t great, we can’t be good. And if we can’t live up to the ideals we claim to stand for, then what are we worth?
As I watched the Hoosiers on the submarine race across the pier to man the rail, it struck me: there is no insurance policy for peace. No backup plan. We must be swift, decisive, and thorough in victory.
And we must win the peace—by having the weapons we hope we never have to use. weapons we hope we never have to use.
Zach and Brad Baber — a legacy of leadership in law and life. From courtroom advocacy to Friday night lights, Zach carries forward his father’s commitment to justice and mentorship, one client and one player at a time.
It’s not exactly the NFL. But Zach Baber is okay with that.
Growing up in Columbia City, he had two goals: play professional football or become a lawyer. “I’m five-foot-eight,” Baber laughs. “So, I’m a defense attorney.” Today, Baber is also the head football coach at Central Noble High School.
That decision didn’t close a door—it opened two. Today, Baber spends his days defending people in court and his evenings coaching high school football. To him, both roles serve the same mission: “Helping people become their best selves.”
Baber works alongside his father, Brad Baber, at their small law firm, Baber & Baber, P.C. The office sits just off the courthouse square, but its reach goes far beyond legal paperwork. “Kindness, calmness, and client care,” Baber says, describing the foundation of their work.
The firm handles everything from minor theft to serious charges like murder. “We are honest with our clients,” he adds. “Every case is important. Every person matters.”
Baber expects accountability—from his clients and his players. “I’m not big on excuses,” he says. But he doesn’t stop there. He wants to understand what led someone to make a poor decision. “We all struggle with confidence,” he reflects.
Before building a defense, Baber asks what circumstances shaped the choices that brought someone to court. He says it’s not unlike helping a football player who misses a tackle—there’s always something underneath. Accountability, to him, means owning the action while also recognizing the reason behind it.
His approach to criminal defense is rooted in personal belief. “Even offenders deserve to be treated justly,” Baber affirms. He believes fairness should be at the heart of the justice system.
That belief shows in how he and his father run their practice. “We’re on call 24/7,” he says. They often work late hours and answer law calls from clients late at night. Some former clients still stop by the office just to catch up. “Some we consider to be friends,” he shares.
Baber doesn’t just argue in court—he builds trust. He listens closely, connects with clients, and reminds them they’re not alone. “Ever since day one, he taught me to care about our clients,” Baber says of his father. “I don’t know how healthy it is, but that’s how we operate—because we truly care about them.”
When fall arrives, Baber trades his courtroom attire for a headset and polo shirt. On the football field, he leads his players through drills and game plans. His dad also helps coach the team. “Our job is to find whatever it is that makes it click for them,” he says—a phrase that guides everything he does.
He encourages athletes to try new things, learn from mistakes, and grow through repetition. When someone struggles, Baber and his coaching staff keep working. “If they don’t get it, it’s on us to figure it out,” he insists.
Baber understands the difference between an excuse and a real reason. “There’s always a story,” he says. “There’s always a reason for why something’s going on or why a person thinks a certain way.”
He teaches players to take responsibility but also reminds them not to be judged only by their mistakes. “I don’t like excuses,” he clarifies, “but there are reasons for certain things. So we have to be sympathetic and aware of that.”
He and his coaching staff expect a lot from every athlete, but they adjust their methods to fit each individual. “Some kids you need to be hard on,” Baber explains. “Some kids you need to be a little loose on. It’s never an exact science.”
That same approach applies in court. “No two players are the same. No two clients are the same,” Baber points out. “Our expectations stay the same, but how we treat each kid is different. And that’s the same for being a criminal defense attorney.”
Baber doesn’t measure success by wins or losses. He remembers the moment that confirmed his career path: “I’ve always been told to fight for those who can’t fight for themselves. That’s what got me into it.”
He watches where his players go after high school. He checks in on former clients years after their cases are closed. “To measure whether I’m successful—or we’re successful—over the next few years is to take a snapshot of these kids and see where their life is in 40 or 50 years,” he says.
Some nights, Baber stays late at school helping with film study. Other nights, he’s at the office reviewing legal documents. He plans football plays and legal motions with the same care. He studies how opponents play and how prosecutors build cases. He prepares for every game and every trial with close attention.
He believes that with support, people can find a turning point—a moment when things begin to change. “Eventually, something clicks, or they get the help they need,” Baber says. That moment, whether on the field or in court, can set someone on a better path.
During the day, Baber works for fairness in courtrooms. At night, he helps build character on football fields. His promise is simple and steady: to fight for those who cannot fight for themselves.
In Albion and Columbia City, Zach Baber is both coach and counselor. When the game ends or the court case closes, his goal is the same—create lasting change and give people hope. Learn more at bradbaberatty.com.
Fort Wayne’s Harvester Legacy and the Tractors That Still Work
Troy Beyersdorf with an International Harvester 1066 at Harvester Homecoming. The 1066 remains one of IH’s popular high-horsepower row-crop tractors, with over 50,000 units produced between 1971 and 1976.
By Dean Jackson
FORT WAYNE -It’s like a scavenger hunt with higher stakes. Troy Beyersdorf searches for parts to keep his farm running.
He traveled from Hemlock, Michigan, west of Saginaw, to the Harvester Homecoming event in Fort Wayne. He sought parts to maintain his old tractors, ensuring his family’s farm continues to operate using machines that shaped generations of agriculture.
“We farm about 600 acres,” Beyersdorf said, his voice practical and firm. He quickly dismissed modern farm equipment. “The technology isn’t worth the problems that come with all the electronic stuff.” He indicates the complexity of modern machinery.
He prefers the power of classic iron. Beyersdorf explains his reasoning: “We can go and buy a $10,000 tractor that does the same job as a $150,000 tractor, maybe not as fast or as comfortable as a cab and whatnot, but the fuel economy alone pays for itself.”
The Harvester Homecoming event brought him to Fort Wayne, a gathering of enthusiasts and working farmers. The air carried the sound of restored engines and shared stories.
Rows of International Harvester tractors, from Farmall Ms to 5288s, stretched across the former factory grounds. Attendees, many of whom have farmed for decades, walked through displays, comparing notes on repairs and sharing tales of their Harvester machines.
While Fort Wayne didn’t build tractors, it played a role in helping farmers like Beyersdorf.
International Harvester (IH) and its Farmall brand operated a network of U.S. manufacturing plants from the early 1900s through the 1980s, each with a defined production role. The Farmall Works in Rock Island, Illinois (1926–1985) was the flagship facility, producing the Farmall Regular, F-series, and letter-series models. The Louisville Works in Kentucky (1947–1983) built smaller tractors like the Cub and Super A, while the Stockton Works in California (1948–1970s) handled large-frame and orchard variants for western markets. Early IH tractors such as the Titan and Mogul were assembled at the Chicago Works (1902–1920s). The East Moline Works (1910–1980s) produced combines and harvesting equipment, and the Memphis Works (1949–1985) specialized in cotton pickers and southern-market machinery.
From 1923 to 1983, Fort Wayne’s Truck Works plant made over 1.5 million heavy-duty trucks. These vehicles were the backbone of many farm operations. They hauled grain from fields, moved equipment between parcels, and ensured supplies reached the farm even in winter.
These vehicles were built to last, serving as partners to the tractors in the fields, forming a complete system for farmers.
Nearby, another factory, Plant 101, built over 532,000 International Scouts. These 4-wheel-drive vehicles were not tractors, but their utility made them valuable on farms.
Their compact design and off-road ability made them suitable for muddy fields, snowy paths to check livestock, or running daily chores across a farm. Scouts were often the first vehicle used in the morning and the last put away at night, a sign of their usefulness alongside the tractors.
Beyersdorf repairs his machines himself, a philosophy born from experience and knowledge of his equipment. “I can take that tractor apart and fix 99 percent of the stuff on it at home,” he said, his hands, calloused from years of work, demonstrating the motions. He emphasized, “I don’t have to go to the dealer.”
If a part isn’t available, he turns to tradesmen in his community. “We got a couple local machine shops that build stuff for us, and they do a reasonable job,” Beyersdorf explained. He acknowledged the cost, adding, “Some of the stuff gets a little expensive, but that’s the price to keep them on the road or keep them going.”
The work is hands-on and exact, a mix of craftsmanship and necessity. According to Beyersdorf, the process is straightforward: “You just bring the part, they look at it, get the micrometer on it, and they machine it out for us and we put her back in.”
He says the quality is often better than the original, a point of pride for him and the machinists. “Generally it’s as good or better than what it was new,” he noted.
Today’s aftermarket parts (parts made by companies other than the original manufacturer), he said, are often strong. This helps these vintage workhorses keep going.
“A lot of the aftermarket parts are just as good as what Case sells today,” Beyersdorf added, indicating satisfaction. He summarized his enjoyment, stating, “It’s a lot of fun. I enjoy working on them old tractors.”
One of his favorite machines, an International, came from a fence row where it sat unused for years. Beyersdorf recounted the story: “My son found it. He works for the county. He talked to the owner nine years ago, asked him again, and now it was for sale.” The acquisition was a result of patience and persistence.
It needed work, a common story for these machines. “We had to put a clutch in it. Clutch was froze up from setting, of course it was,” he explained.
Once it was running, the old tractor, with its paint faded by time and its engine humming, was immediately put to use. “We used it to spray in about 15 to 20 hours spraying soybeans and then the torque, engine power, went to hanging in it,” Beyersdorf noted. In other words, the engine started to fail.
Even with repairs, he said the price was fair, a small investment for dependable service. “For $4,000, I can throw a lot of parts at it to keep it going,” he emphasized.
Fixing tractors is a family activity, a shared passion that binds generations. “My dad, he’s 86; we all wrench. Dad supervises, but everybody else is wrenching.” He smiled. “Everybody needs a supervisor,” Beyersdorf quipped.
This hands-on tradition involves passing down skills, fostering purpose, and strengthening family bonds. This work connects them to their agricultural heritage and honors their ancestors’ ingenuity. It’s the satisfaction of seeing something old and broken become useful again through collective effort.
A restored Farmall Cub secured on a flatbed truck during Harvester Homecoming in Fort Wayne, Indiana. Introduced in 1947, the Cub was designed for small-acreage farms and remains an iconic utility tractor
They don’t trade tractors. They collect them. Each machine is a chapter in their family’s farming story. “There’s not a farmer that ever trades tractors unless they get a really good deal,” Beyersdorf said, a twinkle in his eye.
Right now, they have about 60, a fleet ranging “Everything from a Farmall A to a 5288.” Some are compact, others powerful, their red paint contrasting against the green fields.
The machines are stored across several barns on their 600-acre farm, structures that have stood for decades, their wood holding stories of harvests and repairs.
Inside, the air carries the scent of grease and aged metal. Each corner holds a testament to agricultural history.
Once they finish restoring one, another appears. “They sprout. That’s what I tell everybody,” Beyersdorf declared. “You get done with one, it’s the challenge, finding the parts and making them run the way they were 50, 60, or 70 years ago.”
That’s part of why they come back to Harvester Homecoming each year, drawn by the camaraderie and the shared goal of preserving these agricultural icons.
“We’ve been here six years out of the seven,” said Beyersdorf, a veteran of the event. “We missed the first year.”But for him, it’s about more than machines. It’s about the full spectrum of the International Harvester brand’s practical use and enduring value. “They do a very good job bringing the trucks in. We grew up on International trucks, tractors, combines, the whole works,” Beyersdorf recalled.
He comes back each year for a simple but profound reason. “It’s a family tradition,” he stated.
Soon, that tradition will have a home of its own, a permanent tribute to the brand’s impact. A new International Harvester museum is being built in New Haven, Indiana, just off I-469, promising to be a hub for enthusiasts and historians alike.
For now, Harvester Homecoming stays at the old factory site in Fort Wayne. Visitors can still see the imposing, historic buildings that once housed a massive workforce, the ghosts of parts and tools that once powered a global brand echoing through the expansive grounds.
And the people who made them, and who continue to honor that legacy, still come together in Fort Wayne to celebrate what they built.
A 1977 International Harvester Hydro 86 on display at Harvester Homecoming. The Hydrostatic Drive model was known for its smooth operation and adaptability across field conditions.
On a sunlit Saturday, Lawton Park turned back the clock as the Second Annual Vintage Baseball Showcase, presented by Old Fort Baseball Co., brought 1864 rules back to life. What began last summer as an experiment in remembrance has quietly become a tradition—a nod to the roots of the game and a chance to reconnect with its slower, nobler rhythm.
Between two modern diamonds, a third field appeared—unmarked, unhurried, and unmistakably from another time. There were no fences. No scoreboard. Just three square pillows, a dish of a plate, and a gathering of ballists in navy trousers and white blouses. A few wore shirts with Old English I’s and H’s stretched across their chests—logos that looked like they belonged on a cavalry banner.
Mine was a bibb, pinned on at the last minute with safety pins—just enough of a fix to make sure we looked the part.
The past didn’t just visit—it unpacked a picnic and stayed awhile.
A Field Without Hurry
You don’t step onto that grass expecting transformation. But somewhere between brushing off the pillow bag and stepping into the batter’s line, something shifts. There’s no rush. No countdown clock. Just your breath, the underhand pitch, and the soft promise that you’re allowed to slow down.
I went 1-for-3 that day. Found the rhythm once. That one hit didn’t come off muscle—it came off memory. The pitch floated in like a hymn, daring me to swing too early. I waited. Met it clean. Made for first—no tip of the cap, no theatrics. I was too busy trying not to stumble, or worse, pull something trying to beat out a throw. What probably looked like a confident jog was really me redlining in full preservation mode. These days, top gear doesn’t come with a blur—it comes with a grunt and a prayer.
Let’s call it a hit. There was no official scorer to challenge—and I wasn’t about to raise the objection myself. The first time I’ve made contact in probably 25 years. First time I even tried.
The Rules That Time Forgot
Vintage base ball (yes, two words) isn’t just about aesthetics—it’s a different game entirely. In 1864, the ball could be caught on one bounce for an out. Pitchers delivered the ball underhand, not as a trick, but as a courtesy. There were no gloves. No sliding. No overrunning first base. The bats were long and narrow, like split fenceposts. The ball itself was softer, stitched by hand, and often became the property of the winning club.
Nine innings typically, seven today. Three outs. Nine players give or take. But the pace? That’s where the real difference lives. It’s not slow—it’s deliberate. Outs are earned with precision, not power. The fielders move with care, not urgency. The game breathes.
The Crowd That Time Invited
They came with lawn chairs, others tucked in under canopies, others braving the sun like it was part of the ritual. Some folks knew the rules. Others just knew it felt right. A few wandered over from the modern diamonds and stayed longer than they meant to.
It wasn’t a crowd so much as a congregation. And we weren’t just players—we were keepers of something older than stats.
After the Final Out
We didn’t sprint off the field. We lingered. Signed posters. Took photos. A few kids asked for autographs like we were legends.
I wasn’t about to ruin their moment and tell them I wasn’t the iconic Jim Shovlin. Not this day.
Maybe, for a moment, we were legends. Not because of what we did—but because of how we did it. Slow. Intentional. Grateful.
I signed three posters that day. Not because I was the star—I wasn’t. But because I showed up. Because I remembered. Because I played the game the way it was once played: with wool on my back, dust on my boots, and reverence in my bones.
Closing the Loop
Baseball in Fort Wayne has roots. And every so often, thanks to Old Fort Baseball Co. and a patch of grass at Lawton Park, we get to water them. Not with nostalgia—but with presence. With three pillows, a plate, and a pitch that dares you to slow down and remember.
Fun day. Can’t help but think—wow, I might have to do this again someday. Logan, if you’re listening…
Complex leadership lessons from Patton and Lawrence
By Dean Jackson
It felt less like a movie binge and more like a leadership acid trip.”
Lately, I’ve been digging into classic films—free on YouTube, just sitting there like old letters waiting to be read. These movies didn’t just entertain me; they nudged something loose. This is part review, part reflection, mostly just me finally writing it down.
Yesterday, I finally watched two movies that have been on the cinematic Mount Rushmore for decades: Patton and Lawrence of Arabia. It was my first time watching both, back-to-back. Over six hours of big war, big music, and even bigger personalities. Full intermissions and everything. It felt less like a movie binge and more like a leadership acid trip.
I expected dusty epics. I got gut punches in khaki.
“You never quite know if he believes in anything—or if he’s just trying to become something worth believing in.”
Patton, played like a thunderclap by George C. Scott, stormed through every scene like a man born in armor. “Cocky” doesn’t begin to cover it. Arrogant? Sure. But then the guy’s quoting Scripture while shouting obscenities, tearing into soldiers one minute and weeping over them the next. When the chaplain asks if he reads the Bible, Patton fires back: “Every G\*& @%^+ day.” It’s hilarious and jarring and somehow perfectly honest. That’s what stuck with me—not the tanks, but the truths buried in all the bluster.
Then came Lawrence. Peter O’Toole with that eerie calm and blue steel gaze. The guy looks like he wandered onto the set from a philosophy seminar. At first, he’s awkward, even goofy. But by Act II, he’s leading revolts and questioning empires. You never quite know if he believes in anything—or if he’s just trying to become something worth believing in.
And somehow, both men made sense to me. I don’t have medals or camels. But I’ve got convictions. I’ve got ideas. And more than a few mental rewrites of conversations I wish had gone differently. For a guy with ADHD, I spend an awful lot of time overthinking aka “OCDing” what “doing the right thing” really means.
“Patton leads because he’s sure. Lawrence leads even when he’s not. That cracked something open in me.”
What got me wasn’t just the action; it was the contrast. Patton plays mind games with Montgomery, winning cities just to smirk behind the curtain. Meanwhile, Lawrence watches the cause he built slip through his fingers—and keeps walking anyway. Patton leads because he’s sure. Lawrence leads even when he’s not. That cracked something open in me.
And then there’s Omar Bradley. Quiet. Professional. He ends up outranking Patton and tells him straight: “I do this because I was trained to. You do it because you love it.” Boom. That’s not just war talk—that’s life talk. Some of us chase purpose. Some carry it like a slow, heavy thing. I’m somewhere in the middle. Watching both of them helped me see that.
These characters—these men—weren’t just moving the plot forward; they were wrestling with themselves. And it landed. Hard.
“That, to me, is the terrifying beauty of influence.”
Patton? He’s practically Shakespearean. Obsessed with glory, dripping with contradiction. Tough as tank treads, but reading poetry on the side. He didn’t just fight wars—he performed them. Every glare, every maneuver, every quote felt premeditated. He wasn’t just in history; he was trying to narrate it in real time.
And Lawrence? Poor guy practically evaporates under the weight of his own myth. He’s out there trying to unify tribes, avoid political manipulation, and not lose himself in the process—and spoiler: he kind of loses himself. But not before leading. Not before inspiring. That’s what got me. He didn’t lead because he had it all together. He led because someone had to. And the people around him saw something.
That, to me, is the terrifying beauty of influence. People don’t wait until you’re perfectly put together to follow you. Sometimes they follow your questions more than your clarity.
I watched these two films thinking I’d see great leaders. What I found were haunted ones. They didn’t just carry strategy—they carried wounds. And yet they still moved forward. Not perfectly. Not cleanly. But undeniably.
“Leadership isn’t about being ready. It’s about being willing—to show up, to speak up, to fall flat and still try again.”
And maybe that’s the punchline: leadership isn’t about being ready. It’s about being willing—to show up, to speak up, to fall flat and still try again. That’s what stuck with me long after the credits rolled.
So yeah. Yesterday was my first time watching Patton and Lawrence of Arabia. But it won’t be the last. Because somewhere between the tanks and the dunes, the smirks and the stares, I saw something that felt strangely personal. Part fire. Part dust. Part mirror.
“Do you remember the story of Bill Millin of the 51st Highlanders?
Forty years ago today, British troops were pinned down near a bridge, waiting desperately for help.
Suddenly, they heard the sound of bagpipes, and some thought they were dreaming. Well, they weren’t. They looked up and saw Bill Millin with his bagpipes, leading the reinforcements and ignoring the smack of the bullets into the ground around him.”
President Ronald Reagan, June 6, 1984—40th Anniversary Speech
D-Day – June 6, 1944 Eighty-one years ago.
More than 129,000 men—mostly from the United States, the United Kingdom, and Canada—stormed ashore. It was the first punch in the final strike against Nazi Germany’s grip on Europe, marking the largest seaborne invasion in history—before or since.
In the early hours of that assault—during the bloody plunge into the French coastline—British airborne forces fought for Pegasus Bridge, about 10 miles from Sword Beach. It was a portal to Paris, a crucial gateway in the effort to push inland and eventually strike at the heart of Germany. They held their ground but were pinned down.
Then, through the chaos, a faint sound rose above the gunfire. Bagpipes.
It grew stronger.
It was bagpiper Bill Millin. Out in front, leading reinforcements into battle.
The music was more than a rhythm or a rallying cry. It was a pulse of courage, a reminder of home, heritage, and why they fought—why they had to keep going. The music cut through the chaos.
Millin marched with unwavering steps, his pipes blaring Highland Laddie as he crossed the bridge. His music became a call to something deeper than duty.
The Germans, like his own soldiers, thought he was insane.
But his mission was clear: to push the men around him toward bravery.
Just as Millin’s bagpipes cut through the chaos, giving his fellow soldiers the strength to press forward, I find myself reflecting on the moments in my own life when I needed that same push—when shame, guilt, and doubt kept me isolated, when hesitation held me back, when I let silence take root instead of stepping forward.
I always pause at D-Day because of what it represents. Yes, the triumph of good over evil—that’s not up for debate. But more than that, it reminds me how courage triumphs over cowardice. Sometimes, courage is simply doing what needs to be done.
It also reminds me to lead my own life with intentionality and persistence.
I’m closer to the finish line than ever before, and a funeral this week drove that home with brutal clarity.
I said all that to say this: there have been times—maybe even ten years—when I didn’t step up for you. I’ve lived in isolation—you might not have even known it. That was the punch to my gut at the funeral. I’ve neglected people, and if you’re reading this, you’re probably one of them.
AUBURN — It’s called a tractor show, but it’s much more than that. It’s a reunion—a celebration of farming heritage. It’s a gathering for farmers and farm kids, many of whom have left the land but feel a pullback to their roots.
Officially known as the Winter Power Tractor Show, this annual pilgrimage attracts tractor enthusiasts from Indiana, Ohio, Michigan, Wisconsin, and Kentucky. Attendees come in ball caps and t-shirts of red, blue, and orange—proudly displaying the colors of their tribe. John Deere’s iconic green and yellow are everywhere, but this year the spotlight shines on the Prairie Gold of Minneapolis-Moline, the show’s marquee attraction.
The event, organized by the Farm Power Club, is expected to break attendance records, somewhere in the neighborhood of 3,000 to 5,000 visitors, according to Larry Palmer, one of the organizers. “This isn’t just about the tractors—it’s about the stories behind them, the people who restored them, and the memories they bring back,” Palmer said.
Nearly 300 tractors fill Kruse Plaza, just south of Auburn, with over 50 Minneapolis-Moline models taking center stage. Like cherished family heirlooms, many tractors boast pedigrees that trace their history through multiple generations.
One such enthusiast, John Konger of Churubusco, remains passionate about his collection of vintage tractors at 81. Konger houses 15 restored John Deere tractors in a climate-controlled building on his farm near Chain of Lakes State Park. Despite managing 2,000 acres of farmland and tending to 1,200 hogs with his son Ryan, Konger finds time to tinker with his machines.
“You always tell me it’s kind of like a disease—you get one tractor, you’ve got to have more,” Konger joked, fully embracing his not-so-secret addiction. For him, it’s more than just a hobby—a connection to the land and a way to relive simpler times. “I enjoy modifying them, making them into something they weren’t originally. It’s a challenge, something unusual,” he added.
For enthusiasts like Konger, this personal dedication reflects the broader spirit of the Winter Power Tractor Show—a shared passion that unites people in celebrating farming heritage and community. The show is more than an exhibition; it’s a gathering of like-minded individuals who cherish these machines and the stories they represent.
Among the standout tractors at this year’s show is the Minneapolis-Moline UDLX, affectionately known as the “Comfortractor.” Revolutionary for its time, the UDLX was designed to double as both a field tractor and a road vehicle with luxury features unheard of in the 1930s: a heated cab, upholstered seats, a fan, and even a cigar lighter. Its high cost during the Great Depression limited production to 125 units, making it an incredibly rare and prized collector’s item. Today, around 30 UDLXs are known to exist.
From Michigan’s Thumb region came Brad Calahan of Snover and Ken Brown of Ubly, whose 250-mile journey highlights the dedication of tractor enthusiasts. “Trips like this are common for us,” Calahan said. “It’s a tradition that started seventy years ago.”
Brown shares a deep connection to the Prairie Gold machines. “We keep running them because we love them,” he said. For the Calahan-Brown family, Minneapolis-Moline tractors are more than tools—they’re symbols of resilience, tradition, and the enduring spirit of farming.
“These tractors, some over 50 years old, are still dependable. You can take them right to the field today, and they’ll work like they did decades ago,” Brown explained. “We use them daily—they’re part of how we live and work.” The family’s tradition began in 1949 when Brown’s great-grandfather purchased a brand-new Z Moline. “It was the closest dealer,” Brown noted, “but that simple choice became a lasting legacy.”
For Calahan, these shows are about more than the machines; they’re about building community. “It’s amazing how willing people are to come together and share what they have,” he said. “Whether it’s lending a part, offering advice, or just showing up, it’s all about keeping these machines and their stories alive.”
This collaborative spirit was on full display during a “small” Labor Day neighborhood show and parade organized by Calahan and Brown. Their modest event brought together 50 tractors from within a 10-mile radius. Among the highlights was an extraordinary lineup of five Minneapolis-Moline G585 tractors.
Brown proudly declared, “It’s the largest collection of running G585s in one place anywhere.” Calahan, more modest, added, “At least, you don’t see that very often.”
Here’s my favorite item from the show. A freebie from Joe Tomasulo and Memory Lane Inc.
I was fighting tears when I saw it.Joe was gracious to listen to my story.
My dad’s favovite player was Lou Gehrig. One writer called him “Gibraltar in Cleats.” He played under the shadow of Babe Ruth and did just fine with that.
I won’t bore you with stories.Dad died in April of 2019.
Dad and I didn’t always appreciate each other, mostly it was my problem, frankly.
But it was baseball and his love for the game that kept our relationship connected, even if it was dangling.
Fast forward to my return home, I show this to my daughter, Dakota.
I asked her who it was. She quickly said, “It’s grandpa.”
I said, “Are you sure?”She caught herself, “It’s Lou Gehrig.”
I kept probing, ‘How do you know.”
“Dad, you always talk about Lou Gerhig.”
Maybe we are doing fine.
Maybe the dangling string is stronger than I know.
I’m changing things up for my blog. I’m just involved in some very exciting soul-searching times and I want to better respond to to those.
Running to your giant will include a lot of the old style content I posted. But, I need to be more intentional integrating my faith and the solutions it provides.
I want to engage you at the heart level. For a long time, I’ve shied away because of the mess I thought my life had become. That’s what happens. You get scared, you try to run, you look for escape routes.
The truth is. At least for me, when I am in isolation it only gets worse. I think to much about my crap. I dwell on mistakes.
After years of avoiding I’m coming to grips with that harsh reality I’ve neglected the people close to me.
You may not believe that, but I have.
So, in the days ahead, I’m becoming intentional with reclaiming my role. As a friend says, becoming who I was born to be. Maybe I can help you, get there, too.
This is about being talking about issues and problems at the heart level. No masks, no games, no regret, no regret.
I walk twice a day, its something that I need to do for my health and my mental health.
I was focused on making a record time, and a record distance.
I’m burning up the pavement.
A little boy, I’m assuming his sister and then his mom walk across the street.
His mom shuffles to meet her, I figured she was just being safe.
You know, I’m pretty dangerous and scary looking.
The the little girl comes to me.
She walks up to me.
Something is differently out of the ordinary.
She’s holding a small package of jelly beans and walks away. She wasn’t even gonna wait for a thank you..
It’s either she just giving to give or just wanted to get to the park as quickly as she could.
As I stopped to talk, her shyness was almost to overcome. Her mother motioned for her to come back.
I learned her name is Beah.
As she clutched Ziploc bag of goodies with one hand and smothered small chocolate bunny with the other we snapped the photo above.
Two blocks away I repeated the story to a landscaper working in front of a home and re-gifted the jelly beans to him.
(Had she given me the foil wrapped rabbit, everything would be different.)
I spent the rest of the walk retelling my story to anyone who would listen.
A woman laying down mulch. A young family near the park.
When I returned home, my precocious 11-year-old. Riddled with the scars of life apparently… she said with the wisdom of sage, “my faith in humanity has been restored.
It’s been a hard, but rewarding few days of conforming to new found truth and this little girl reminded me of a couple things.
*It’s about what the in between of starting and reaching a goal.
*Everyone is going through something, help ease their burden
*Everyone has something to share and they need to share – let them.
*Everyone needs to learn to receive graciously.
In 2009, the great philosopher Miley Cyrus said:
Ain’t about how fast I get there Ain’t about what’s waiting on the other side It’s the climb
The struggles I’m facing The chances I’m taking Sometimes might knock me down, but No, I’m not breaking
I may not know it But these are the moments that I’m gonna remember most, yeah Just gotta keep going
And I, I gotta be strong Just keep pushing on, ’cause
There’s always gonna be another mountain I’m always gonna wanna make it move Always gonna be an uphill battle Sometimes I’m gonna have to lose
The Climb – Written by Jessi Alexander and Jon Mabe. Performed by Miley Cyrus, Walt Disney Records.
And, I guess I did make record time, slowest walk, because I was engaging people as I went.
Let’s see what today brings – I’m venturing out right now. Message me, I always enjoy company on a walk.
Honestly, I say they are all for me. But sometimes I write as an escape.
No, no, not that type.
Typically they aren’t sojourns to a cabin in the woods coming back with enlightenment.
There are escape as in, I’m trying to get away from some sort of personal prison.
It’s a distraction. Plan and simple, running.
Something negative, something that is not fun, pouring into something rather than deal with things.
I suppose, addicts feel this way. From what little I know about addicts, it’s not the method or the means so much
(Don’t get me wrong some things are more harmful, IMMEDIATELY, than others)
The real danger, ultimately is the untreated, uncovered behaviors and attitudes that led to the addiction.
It’s wasting time till something better comes along.
I do that a lot.
I’ve been wrestling with that for the last day or so. No, I’ve been wrestling with it for decades.
I just had the light of truth shine into a dark spot.
The saying of when the going gets tough, the tough get going. Well, for me, when the going gets tough, I just get going anywhere but were I need to be.
I just want to high tail it out.
The truth – it’s emotionally lazy. It’s veiled cowardice.
It usually plays out in seeking what keeps me occupied and excited. Making sure I fill the bucket.
But, you know, the bucket always has holes, because you are always looking for more – it’s like cotton candy.
Nothing satisfies.
Championship players say they feel it when they win, then the emptyness of “now what?” They have to hop back on a treadmill to get it back.
It’s loving the moment and then suddenly asking what’s next. It’s looking ahead to moment B, C and D. It’s the nice “high.”
The realty for me, It’s anything to minimize the pain, hurt or boredom.
That’s not to say I have some deep hidden demon or bogeyman in the closet.
While we are always dealing with negatives, stress and pain.
Just another of the neurosis that we all seem have tucked away.
There is an anchor, your self-identity.
Well, for me it’s my identity in who Jesus says he is.
Savior. What he gives, peace, stability and knowledge he holds the keys to everything.
It’s admitting I’m weak and scared.
It’s being aware of the grace you’ve been given.
And being grateful for what you have.
It’s not experiencing more, it’s experiencing WHO you are.
It’s seeing who you are becoming. I don’t know what comes next.
It’s embarrassing to say all this.
I’ve acted brave, but honestly I’ve looked for corners to cut.
It’s a thought that’s a day old and I’m’ cutting it up and chewing on it.
I’m making sure I savor everything it means.
I literally feel like I found this piece of wisdom buried in a treasure chest and I’m scraping and digging to understand it.
And it hurts, it stings, but I’m hopeful I’ll understand it a little more tomorrow.
As my mother said hundreds of time, “you don’t have to like it, but you do have to do it.”
RUN TO YOUR GIANT 