Adventures In Dishwashing (Ode To The Dishwasher)

Our new dishwasher is now almost 2 years old. Its birthday is December 9th. It’s been used twice. Three times tops. For a bunch of years we actually had three dishwashers, but two of them graduated from high school and moved out. And the third one came with the house when we moved in back in 1994. No, no, no, it wasn’t a leftover teenager from the previous owner or anything like that. The third one was the mechanical kind. But it didn’t work, so we just used it to store air for 14 years. Therefore since 1994 the dishes were always washed by hand; and for about the last decade it’s been just my wife and I (although I guess the dog helped some, but don’t tell that to our friends or family). To tell you the truth, I feel that washing the dishes together gives us a time to talk and catch up on the news of the day. And it has definitely helped to cement our relationship together. Here is a sample of one of our more intimate conversations: Me: “How was your day?” Kay: “Fine.” Kay: “And how was your day?” Me: “Fine.” Those deep exchanges of emotion over a sink full of dishes have helped us both to face the trials of life. But sometimes the conversations aren’t quite that intimate; on occasion we just stare out the window and watch the squirrels fight over the sunflower seeds. Or occasionally I guess we do talk about some pretty serious stuff. You know, like “Was Yogi Berra the catcher for the New York Yankees or the cartoon bear that lived in Jellystone National Park?” Or, “Hey Honey, the neighbors aren’t burning furniture in their backyard again are they?” Even though most of the time the dishwashing-conversations are about problem solving global issues, every now and then we get to laughing so hard that Joy soap bubbles come out our nose. And occasionally I guess we just goof around. Like the other night – I washed the big pizza pan, she dried it and then held it up to her face like a shield and was peaking at me through the millions of little holes to see if I still looked the same. And I’ve been known to put the spaghetti strainer on my head and pretend to be contacting Mars or Iowa. And Kay does a pretty good job of imitating the sound that the garbage disposal makes. If we are washing the dishes between 5-7 on Saturday evenings, we try to listen to Garrison Keillor’s “A Prairie Home Companion.” When we told that to my nephew David and his wife-to-be Katie (would that be your niece-in-law?), they thought it was just so romantic. I always wash, and Kay always dries. And it always goes from right to left – that whole process never changes. But if I time it right (and pretend to be busy) she will actually start washing the dishes. Then I will suddenly race into the kitchen, and while trying to catch my breath, say something like, “Oh Honey, I am sooooo sooorrrryy!!! Here let me help! I got distracted watching Ice Road Truckers on TV.” I then commence to washing the remaining dishes while she has to dry all of them. And she often reminds me that I put in too much soap. Every night its, “Dan, its CONCENTRATED! You don’t need that much soap!” My reply? “What did you say? Sorry, I was concentrating.” I then, in a Moses-at-the-Red-Sea fashion, part the enormous mountain of soap so that I can see the dishes. As Kay was putting the dishes into the cupboard one evening after she dried them, it was only natural that during one of our dishwashing conversations we pondered just why the cupboard is called the “cupboard.” We figured it must have originated from medieval days when the cups were simply placed on a rough hewn oak board to dry. After supper the wife would say to the husband, “Put the cups up on that rough hewn oak board.” But when Monday Night Football rolled around a few years later (I think Howard Cosell started in like 1869), the husband was suddenly in a big hurry so the wife would simply say, “Put the dishes on the cupboard before you even THINK about sitting down in front of the TV!” And later on, hickory doors and pewter door pulls were added so that’s how come we now say, “Put the dishes IN the cupboard.” Anyway, back to the dishwasher. We run the dishwasher through a wash cycle about every other month just so it doesn’t get rusty or full of cobwebs. And every once in a great while we even put dishes into it so that it doesn’t lose its sense of dish-esteem. Maybe I would be more in favor of actually using the dishwasher more often if in fact it put the dishes away. To be perfectly honest with you, I was more than a little aghast when I opened the dishwasher door after the first time we washed the dishes and found that they were STILL IN THE DISHWASHER! I guess maybe we need to buy the companion Kenmore Dishputterawayer. Or maybe we could raise a couple more dishwashers in our old age. And the boy would be named Ken More Vander Ark. And the girl would be called May Tag Vander Ark. Ode To The Dishwasher: Oh dishwasher Oh dishwasher O Giant piece of Kenmore plastic (That’s all I have – it’s a work in progress) Or I guess it could be a limerick: There once was a dishwasher named Kenmore It didn’t know why it was here for It never got used It felt so abused It just fills up the space on the floor (Please submit your favorite dishwashing limerick to me [email dan.lee.vanderark@gmail.com]. The best one will be put on the blog and you will receive a signed picture of me with a spaghetti strainer on my head)

========================================================== From my friend Ron... Hi Dan, I loved the dishwasher column. - I think anyone who was married in the 60s has their own dishwashing machine stories...including the flooded floors - HA! I have one for you in honor of T-Bone...by the way it was great to see him on your blog! - Here it is... We used to wash dishes alone, But then along came our T-Bone He never came late... He licked every plate 'til the last scrap of food was all gone! Have a great day, Ron Jer. 10:23 NIV

A Flying Black Lab and Other Misadventures in Snowmobiling

We ran into the house and yelled, "Mom's going to try it!" My dad and two brothers and sister and I watched as we saw a flash go by the dining room window, across the lawn and over the dead end gravel road of our rural Moorhead, Minnesota home. We ran outside but all we could see was one handle bar and a boot on the far side of the road. Mom had tipped over and caught the laces of her boot on the handle bar and was laughing about her mishap. She was later dubbed “Snoopy” by someone in the family because of the way she looked when she rode the snowmobile.

As teenagers there were two things we lived for – duck hunting in the fall and snowmobiling in the winter. They were just about as greatly anticipated as that of the appearance of St. Nick. We couldn’t wait for the duck hunting season to open the first part of October and we couldn’t wait for it to snow in November so we could ride the snowmobiles. To quote my mom, “Once snowmobiling started, NOTHING else got done around the house.”

Our addiction to snowmobiling began in December of 1968. On Christmas Eve to be exact. My dad and brothers and I drove up to Roseau, Minnesota to pick up a brand new 1969 Polaris Colt. It had a steel frame, a 300cc single cylinder JLO engine, and bogey wheel suspension. We were in heaven! (A guy on EBay just recently sold a ’69 Colt, still in the crate, for $6500!)

But there was just one problem – we couldn’t get it started. Until Polaris came out with the twin cylinder Star engines in about 1970, the JLO engines were just about the most temperamental starting things on the planet. So that Christmas Day we actually took the back door of the house off the hinges, brought the snowmobile INSIDE to warm it up (bless my mom’s heart – I don’t think Martha Stewart would have ever allowed that). It was flooded and we didn’t know about the magical little drain plug at the bottom of the crankcase. I will always remember the site of spark plugs warming themselves on the burner on the stove. That still brings a tear to my eye.

When my dad and brothers finally got it started there was joy in the Vander Ark household! We drove it at least 10 miles around the yard and down the ditches before it broke down. The first couple of years the snowmobiles were in the garage shop getting fixed just as much as they were being ridden. The next year we got a 1970 Charger and that had its share of flaws also. I remember welding the foot rests on either the Colt or Charger – I had the back propped up and didn’t realize there was a slight gasoline leak (the gas tank was on the back) which ran down the snow covered running board and toward where I was welding. I flipped up the welding mask only to see the running board on fire. Snow works really well to put out a fire.

It wasn’t until the fall of 1970 when we got the first TX that things really changed. It had the Polaris Star engine and slide rail suspension. But the coolest part was that the engine stuck out of the hood. I think it was in late February of 1971 that my brother and I planned to ride the sleds to our grandparents in Madison, Minnesota – 150 miles away! In our teenager minds an even greater achievement than the Plaisted Polar Expedition that rode snowmobiles to the North Pole in 1968. They had to battle 474 miles across towering ice ridges, open water leads, and the drifting ice pack on their way to the pole. But hey, we had to battle the rock hard ditches of the Red River Valley on the way to Grandma’s house! And they may have had the backing of the Canadian Air Force, but we had far more important backing – that of our mom and dad! We planned and packed and planned and packed. No support vehicles – just a bunch of tools, tape, wire and a can of quick start. We got halfway when the motor mounts on the Charger broke and we had to leave it with a farmer by Wheaton, MN. We rode the rest of the way on the TX and finally made it to grandma’s about 6:00. Somewhere near Ortonville, Minnesota we heard a loud boom in the back of the snowmobile. The can of quick start had exploded from the bumpy day-long ride. But we finally made it. That’s one small step for two teenagers, one giant leap for snowmobilekind.

A couple of years later a bunch of us actually rode snowmobiles from Fargo to Winnipeg -- 240 miles – in one day! My biggest memory of that trip was hitting a manure spreader north of the border. I think my dad had sort of kind of told us to ride together but, as a typical lead-footed teenager, I wanted to be out front. A few miles into Canada I encountered a farmer on his tractor – he was headed south, was pulling a manure spreader and I was heading north and was not pulling anything. The farmer turned east off the highway directly in front of me. I hit the brakes on the TX, slid the machine sideways and slammed into the wheel of the manure spreader. My ankle was caught between the sled and the wheel of the spreader. It was like a fly hitting the side of an elephant. I got off the machine, limped up to the guy on the tractor, and asked, “Are you all right?” Maybe he swore at me in Canadian, I can’t remember.

For Christmas one year I wanted a new snowmobile helmet lettered with the words, “The Flying Dutchman.” After some gifts were opened on Christmas Eve my family said, "Danny, why don’t you open up your gift?" I knew it was the helmet. I ripped off the paper ripped open the box. It was just a horrible looking old white helmet that was dreadfully lettered with a black permanent marker. They asked me how I liked it. “Well, uh, it’s nice.” I couldn’t wait to get my hands on Santa. They all laughed and then gave me the real thing. My dad was always the practical joker. (Like when my younger brother got married. He was a lieutenant in the Army and, after the wedding, was given a couple of weeks to get to his duty station in Virginia. My dad had someone from the radio station pretend that he was a sergeant in the Army with a change in orders for my brother. The imposter called my brother the NIGHT BEFORE THE WEDDING to inform him that he had to leave immediately for the WEST COAST! We all had a good laugh from that).

A couple of months ago, my mom mentioned that our sister Lisa, the youngest of the four kids, would never hang her snowmobile suit with us three boys. Something about the fact that ours were icky. I emailed her about that and this was her exact reply, “Yes, she's right. You got it. In fact I still have my suit. It's in a box in the garage and it still looks like new.” That’s just sick.

The late 60’s and early 70’s was the first golden era of snowmobiling. And it seemed that everyone was manufacturing snowmobiles. Not only did you have the biggies, but there were also a zillion other makes: Massey Ferguson, John Deere, Rupp, Scorpion, Yukon King, Viking, Mercury, and Evinrude. There was one (I can’t remember the name of it) but you rode side-by-side in sort of a cockpit. There was Alouette, Ariens, and Suzuki. There was Boa Ski, Chaparral, Homelite and Harley Davidson. Harley Davidson? There was Kawasaki, Montgomery Ward, Sears (did JC Penney make a snowmobile?), Moto-Ski, Northway, Mallard, Roll-O-Flex, and Silverline. There was Ski-Bee, Ski-Daddler, Ski-Doo, Ski-Jet, Skiroule, Ski-Whiz and Ski-Zoom… There was Sno Cub, Sno Flite, Sno Fury, Sno Ghia, Sno-Pac, Sno-Pony, Sno-Prince and even a Snow Flake. My high school friend Mark had a Sno Jet. He thought they were so cool because the track left the word “Sno Jet” imprinted in the snow. A couple of times we wanted to leave him imprinted in the snow. The “Snowmobile Service Manual 11th Edition (1962-1986)" lists 75 snowmobile manufacturers. 75! But as a Polaris family, we hated both Ski-Doo and Arctic Cat. To us, they were Ski-Don’t and Arctic Rat. A friend from Hayward, Wisconsin read this story and emailed me: “You don’t want to know what we called Polaris, it wasn’t very nice!” I asked where she grew up. “Thief River Falls.” No wonder :>). Today, the site of a vintage snowmobile ride and the thick blue haze of two-cycle exhaust brings back some great memories.

In about 1969 I went with my dad to a snowmobile race in Brainerd. I saw the Rupp Dragster up close. It was a really cool twin track snowmobile in the shape of a dragster. The track announcer said Mickey Rupp would be driving the dragster that day. I had a black and white 8x10 glossy photo of this amazing machine and took it up to the Rupp team for Mickey to sign it. “Don’t let ‘em snow job ya kid!” one of the guys said. Meaning this – Mickey ain’t anywhere close to Minnesota. Someone signed his name for me though.

My brothers and I also did the racing thing. They may not admit it, but I have actually won the most money in the family from snowmobiling racing. An amazing $35.00 for winning a junior race in Madison, Minnesota. A while back I asked my older brother if he remembers how much he made. He said he thought about $15.00. I gleefully informed him that I had doubled his earnings. But he disputes it, he thinks I just have a better memory. Once at the Glyndon Speedway I was on the starting line with the old 69 Colt which had a megaphone exhaust pipe. It didn’t actually go real fast but it sounded fast. The flag dropped, I hit the throttle and the engine died. I looked over at the sidelines and a high school classmate was laughing at me.

One of the highlights of winter was going with our dad when he covered the Winnipeg to St. Paul I-500 Snowmobile Race for KFGO radio station. That was huge for us. My brothers and I would keep the stats and we would stop every so often so my dad could phone in a report. “This is Van Vander Ark reporting from Pembina,” or Karlstad, or Crookston, or Ada, or Alexandria or St. Paul. He tried covering the race one year with a small plane, but got stuck at a little airport in Ada and wound up using a car anyway. So that was the end of covering the I-500 by air. And one year he entered the I-500 as a press entrant. He loved telling the story of passing Stan Hayes, one of the pro drivers for Polaris, on the lakes north of Alexandria, Minnesota. Unfortunately though, on that day Stan ran out of gas a mile short of the finish line. A high school classmate of mine rode in the I-500, and when he left Winnipeg it was about -30 and his goggles had broken. When he came back to school he kind of looked like Rory Raccoon with the frost bitten area around his eyes. He was the same guy that laughed at me at the starting line when my snowmobile died. That’s what he gets.

I got married at age 18 and then at 19 joined the Army so I wasn’t around Minnesota much after 1974. When I told my family I was going to get married, my younger brother Kevin said, “Danny, what about snowmobiling?” Kevin did most of the snowmobile racing later on. He entered several cross country races and also entered the I-500 twice and did real well. He was up with the lead pack one year but he hadn’t reinforced the front suspension like the pro’s had and eventually broke down from the brutal ride. One of the racers said that the I-500 wasn’t so much a race as it was an ordeal.

In 1969 our dad was invited by Ted Otto from Polaris to cover the Midnight Sun 600 which ran from Anchorage to Fairbanks. At one spot along the way (Tok) it was -71 and at another spot the National Guard had recorded a wind-chill of -145. At the finish line in Fairbanks it was -43. The conditions must have just been simply too vicious because I think they only ran that race one year.

A few days ago I emailed Ken Kjelvik, one of my high school friends, about vintage snowmobiles. At the end of his email reply he said this, “Man, we put a lot of miles on back then, never to cold, never to sore to ride, it was just plain fun.” It certainly was.

My dad’s sister in Florida and my mom’s sister in California couldn’t understand why our mom and dad chose to live in northern Minnesota. But for them (and us) there were many reasons to live in this wonderful area – the four seasons, the 10,000 lakes, the brilliant fall colors, the beauty of freshly snow-covered landscape, the sound of geese heading south in the winter. And perhaps a small part of that choice was the joy of snowmobiling in the winter. Our dad, who passed away in 2002, simply loved the sport and we are grateful for all of the wonderful memories he and our mom provided us.

But I will leave you with a little story that my dad wrote in about 1999. I chuckle every time I read it. The following is in his own words: “Over the years I continued enjoying the sport, but had a close call one day after an early season snowfall. I had purchased a 1978 Polaris liquid cooled machine and took it out for a ride along the mile long dead end gravel road where we lived east of Moorhead. After riding in the ditch for a little bit I decided to try it out on the road. I took a good look to make sure that Max, our big black lab (that liked to ride with me on the snowmobile) had gone back to the house. I didn't see him and so I decided to try it out as fast as I could go down the hardpacked road. Taking a quick look at the speedometer as it passed 75mph, I was horrified when I looked up and saw Max coming out of the ditch directly in front of me. He ran right down the middle of the road! I tried to turn to miss him, but couldn’t – I was going to fast. I caught sight of him flying through the air after I scooped him up with the front of the snowmobile. My machine started sliding sideways and finally caught hold of the rough gravel on the side of the road and flipped over. I remember seeing the machine flying over me upside down and I prayed quickly that it wouldn't fall on me. It cleared the road ditch and landed right side up in the field. Amazingly, only the windshield was broken! I slid down the road for some distance and finally into the ditch near a neighbor's house. With wobbly knees I ran onto the road expecting to find Max dead or badly injured. But at first I couldn’t find him. I then looked toward our house and saw him running at break neck speed down the long driveway. I ran after him and caught up with him at the back door. We were both shaking. I checked him over carefully and found only a small cut on one of his feet. Later, I went back to the spot where we impacted and where Max the Wonder Dog had landed. At the landing spot you could clearly see his high-speed dog tracks on the edge of the road. From the point of impact to where Max landed it was a distance of some 75 feet. That has to be a world record for a Flying Black Labrador!”

Heart Transplant At Age 19!

Most people aren’t aware of the fact that I had a heart transplant when I was 19 years old. Our family physician had matter-of-factly informed me that although I looked fairly healthy on the outside, my heart was ravaged by disease and was desperately sick. I had my whole life ahead of me, but now it was in jeopardy.

I grew up in Minnesota and lived for the first 12 years in St. Cloud, our family then moved to Moorhead in 1969. In my growing up years we (my two brothers and one sister) did the normal kid stuff. Living in the country gave us the opportunity to play in the sandpit and go squirrel hunting. I was a young “mad scientist” – I loved chemistry sets and attempted making rocket fuel and other weird concoctions. We went rabbit and pheasant hunting, we lived for duck hunting, we couldn’t wait for it to snow so we could go snowmobiling, and we looked forward to spending time at a resort in the summer so we could go swimming, skiing and fishing. Our parents expected us to work hard (we must have considered it “inhumane treatment”) but they also entrusted us with responsibilities that most kids today don’t have the privilege of experiencing. We drove the boat, we raced snowmobiles ($35.00 was my total life’s winnings), my brother and I had purchased six cars by the time we were out of high school and we overhauled some of them. As teenagers we were allowed to make the 150 mile trip by ourselves to our grandparents’ house for hunting trips.

I was the type of kid that didn’t get into major trouble or become addicted to drugs. But even though I was quieter and pretty much non-rebellious, somewhere in my junior year of high school I sort of lost it for awhile. My hair got long (pony tail long), my grades went down some and I even got drunk a couple of times. My older brother and I took a course in high school in “Transcendental Meditation” and for awhile I did the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi chanting thing. I had the typical teenager lead-foot syndrome and got a couple of speeding tickets. The worst thing I can remember doing? One Sunday morning a few of us went to the place where I was employed and we ripped off a bunch of car parts. My friend and I were trying to pull the tires off one of the vehicles – we loosened the lug nuts and I pulled – but when I pulled the car fell down and my wrist was clamped between the tire and the fender. But my friend was strong enough to lift up the car just enough for me to pull my hand out.

In 1973 I graduated from Moorhead High. Our team mascot was a potato – we were the Spuds! (When other teams played us their posters read, “Mash the Spuds!”) In the fall of that year I married Kay and she was working in a nursing home as an aide and I was working at Dayton’s department store in Fargo as a stock clerk. Our little upstairs apartment was small but it was ours – the rent was $88.00 per month. Our car was a 1960 Ford Falcon – painted canary yellow with one of those sprayed-on black vinyl tops. The gas pedal was held on with a coat hanger wire and when you hit a bump too hard the driver’s window would go “kerthunk!” and fall off the track and down into the door (you always carried a pair of pliers with you so you could pull it back up). Not really knowing what to do with our lives, sometime in the early summer of 1974 Kay and I joined the Uncle Sam’s Army. Kay wanted to go into dentistry and I wanted to go into computers – but Army schooling would have split us up for too long, so we compromised – we became military police! (If you ever want to challenge my wife to a marksmanship contest with an M-16, you might just lose). If I remember correctly, we officially enlisted sometime in June of 1974, but we did not have to go to basic training until September 22nd, so we had most of the summer to be with family and friends. (We would spend our first anniversary apart – me at Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri and Kay at Ft McClellan, Alabama. The day we got back together in Fort Gordon Georgia after 2 months of basic training was like a scene right out of Hollywood – but no time to tell that story now.)

But it became very apparent that summer of ’74 that I was sick and I began to realize that something was not right inside of me and that I needed help desperately. But the disease that was ravaging my heart was a special type of malady and needed the attention of an extraordinary doctor. You see, my sickness was not physical in nature, but spiritual. And our family physician was none other than the Great Physician, Jesus Christ Himself. Sometime in the summer of 1974 I had been reading a best-seller written by Hal Lindsey titled, “The Late Great Planet Earth.” On the front cover it said, “A penetrating look at the incredible prophecies (of the Bible) involving this generation.” I was captivated by the fact that the Bible, written so many centuries before, could have implication in the generation in which we were then living. At the end of one of the chapters in “The Late Great Planet Earth,” the author wrote, “As you read this book you may have reached the point where you recognize your inability to live in a way that would cause God to accept you. If this is the case, you may speak to God right now and accept the gift of Christ's forgiveness. It’s so simple. Ask Christ to come into your life and make your life pleasing to God by His power.” I don’t exactly remember where it was or what month it was, but I remember praying that simple prayer and how, for the very first time, Jesus became so very real to me. He took out my diseased heart of sin and gave me a brand new heart! We had attended church regularly when I was growing up but, as most kids did, I found it boring and I hated it. But suddenly I couldn’t get enough of church and I still remember going out to my parents and asking them for a Bible.

I am now 52 years old. I have never ever regretted making that decision to ask Jesus to come into my life. Although many times I have stumbled and fallen along the way, He has never ceased to pour out His mercy and love and joy into my life. His grace truly is amazing! I am still dealing with many shortcomings in my life (I call them "warts"), and believe me, I have plenty of them! At times I can get moody and depressed (ask my wife), I can be sarcastic and unforgiving (ask my mom and brothers and sister), I can do some stupid things (ask my co-workers), I can be impatient and sometimes a little uncaring of sheep (ask my church congregation), and there have been many times when I have had to ask people for their forgiveness. But Jesus has patiently changed me from the inside out and my life is dramatically different from what it used to be. And I owe it all to the One Who suffered the horrors of Calvary for my sin.

My friend Ken H. was wearing a T-Shirt at church one Sunday and I loved the simple saying on the front. “I am the wretch the song refers to.” The familiar church hymn “Amazing Grace” was written by John Newton, a slave ship captain, who was radically transformed in 1748 by the immeasurable love of God. He then went on to testify for the rest of his life about the One Who “saved a wretch like me.” The word “wretch” is defined as “someone who is deplorably unfortunate or an unhappy person.” I, Dan Vander Ark, was the wretch the song refers to! The same Jesus that turned around the life of John Newton is the same Jesus that changed my life – and He is the same Savior that can bring joy and peace and purpose to your life! He is alive today and is still in the business of transforming lives!

Is your life empty? If you were to die tonight do you have a certainty in your heart that you would go to heaven? Is your heart ravaged by the disease called “sin?” Simply ask Jesus to come into your heart today and forgive you of your sins – He loves YOU more than you will ever know!

Copyright 2008 All rights reserved

Rescue from the Red (Angels on Assignment)

Introduction: My dad, Van Vander Ark, wrote a couple of rough drafts of this article in 2000, 2 years before he passed away. He had been an avid snowmobiler for a good portion of his life and covered (for the press) both the I-500 Winnipeg to St. Paul snowmobile race and the Midnight Sun 600 from Anchorage to Fairbanks, Alaska. He loved snowmobiling and told our family this story many years ago. I didn’t know until a couple of years ago that those rough drafts existed. To honor him I tried my best to piece this account together. So the following is the recounting of this amazing rescue…

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The years have passed quickly since that January day in 1986, but I can still see the terrified look in the eyes of then 14 year old Stephanie of Fargo, ND. For some time her step-father Shawn had struggled to pull her out of the raging current in the open water below a spillway on the Red River of the North, but he was unable to. The “Red” forms the border between most of North Dakota and a large portion of Minnesota as it winds its way past Winnipeg, Manitoba and into Lake Winnipeg, the world's 12th largest inland lake.

The two had decided to take a snowmobile ride on the Red River, starting south of Fargo-Moorhead in a tree-lined sheltered area. The area was new to them and they were not aware of the unmarked spillway and the open water below it. In later years this spillway and one further north and closer to downtown Fargo-Moorhead became known as the “drowning machines”— anything that was caught in the deathly grip of the whirlpool rarely survived.

The two rode north with Shawn in the lead. Shawn noticed a trail on the Fargo side of the river and followed it to see where it went. When he saw the spillway he raced back to stop Stephanie, but arrived too late as she rode her machine down the center of the wide river and sailed off the edge of the spillway. Her snowmobile sunk below her and the strong current pushed her body into a V-shaped area of ice on the far side of the open water. Shawn abandoned his machine close to the edge of the spillway and ran around it and onto the ice to try to pull Stephanie out. But as strong as he was, he couldn't overcome the force of the water that held most of her body under the ice’s edge. In fact the current was so strong that it actually pulled off her snowmobile boots. The two struggled without success and the roar of the spillway drowned out their cries for help. The normally busy winter recreational area was void of anyone coming by, perhaps because of the somewhat adverse weather conditions and also the fact that it was time for an NFL football playoff game.

That morning something seemed to be nagging at me to take a ride on my old cross country racer. It was an older 1978 Polaris TXL 340 with a somewhat smaller engine that would top out at about 75 mph. And it was a rough riding snowmobile made before the much smoother independent suspension machines. The day was far from desirable for a ride as the preceding day had been very warm and melted the wind-swept drifts in the flat fields and ditches. The snow had frozen rock hard overnight and so I kept telling myself it would be foolish to ride on such a day. It was overcast, which meant the hardened drifts would be more difficult to see, a fairly strong wind was blowing. Plus the clutch on my machine had just been repaired by the dealer but still appeared to be misaligned.

Given all of that I still couldn't get over the feeling that I had to go to the Red. Finally, I suited up and told my wife Dorothy that I just wanted to check out the clutch and not to worry as I might ride all of the way to the river. We lived several miles east of Moorhead on the south side of Interstate 94. I was then a 56 year old salesman for KFGO radio station in Fargo where I had worked for the past 24 years. My wife asked me if I wouldn't rather stay home and sit by the fireplace and watch the football game. Normally I would have taken her up on it, but I mumbled some sort of excuse and fired up the old TX. When I got to the end of the driveway I then remembered that I had left a rope in the garage that I usually carried in my snowmobile. Just in case I needed it, I went back and tucked it into the storage compartment.

The ditch drifts were hard and jarring. About half way to the Red I stopped by a group of trees to warm my hands under the exhaust of the snowmobile. I debated about continuing on -- the lure to return to the fireside was strong, but I decided to keep going. I finally reached the Red at what was known as the Monastery Bridge where I would usually stop to rest my arms. But this time I decided not to stop and so I kept riding south just a short distance. As I continued on the twisting river the lack of the normal traffic became obvious. I was always careful to watch out for snowmobilers riding on the wrong side in the sharp corners, but seeing only one person in the highway-wide stretch of the river that went north toward the spillway, I began to push the old racer to see what it could still do. The machine went wide open into the corner, and then backed off for a moment, then full throttle again. The speed and the thrill of riding reminded me of the time I rode as a press entrant several years prior in the Winnipeg-St. Paul I-500 snowmobile race.

The last corner before the spillway was broad and I held the throttle wide open. The track studs finally caught in the hard-pack and the old machine seemed to leap ahead. The side of the high windshield folded back telling me without looking at the speedometer that I was doing at least 75 mph.

I slowed for the unmarked spillway and saw a snowmobile parked close to its edge, wondering why anyone would leave it there. Stopping further back, I ran up and looked over the edge and saw Shawn lying spread eagle on the ice and appearing to be trying to retrieve a helmet in the water. But when I looked closer I could see that someone was in the water! I waved my arms and shouted that I was coming, but they couldn't hear me over the roar of the spillway. I raced back to my snowmobile that was still idling and drove as fast as I could around the spillway on the trail. I grabbed my rope (that I had nearly forgotten to bring along) and ran out onto the ice.

It was then I looked into the terrified eyes of Stephanie. Shawn would later tell me that they had been struggling for about 15 minutes and that their cries for help to the nearby homes were drowned out by the roar of the spillway. And he didn't know if his numbed hands could hold her much longer. He would also later tell me that when he saw me run back from the spillway's edge that he thought I didn't want to get involved. They had both prayed that God would hear their cries and send someone to help them in their desperate situation.

Shawn couldn’t bear the thought of how he would ever explain to Stephanie's mother that he simply couldn't hold onto her any longer and that she was swept away by the violence of the current and was lost under the ice.

We both pulled on Stephanie but to no avail. I then yelled at Shawn to take the end of my rope and throw it out into the current so it could circle her and then tie it under her arms. With his remaining strength he was able to do it, holding on to her with one hand and tying the rope with the other.

But we both pulled without success. The current wedged her body tightly under the ice. I yelled at Shawn that when I yelled "go" to reach over Stephanie as far as he could, grab her by the seat and pull her up against the current. I backed away from the water’s edge to the end of the rope and was able to get leverage when I found a little bump on the ice. I held the rope tightly, braced my feet against the bump and I yelled for him to “GO!” Shawn grabbed Stephanie as I pulled, and she finally slid out onto the ice past both of us. The force of the current had ripped off her boots and her long black stockings were hanging far below her feet when she was finally popped out onto the ice.

After a quick look to make sure Shawn was OK, I got Stephanie on the back of my machine and told her to hang on tight. We raced back up the trail, across the river, up a steep bank and skidded into the front yard where a young college student looked at us in surprise. I told him she had been in the river for some time and we needed help fast. He yelled at his sister as we took off Stephanie’s snowmobile suit. The young lady put her in a warm shower. Stephanie was going to be alright.

I don't know how Shawn and Stephanie are doing today, but I assume they are both fine. She will be about 28 and I will be 70. But, at times I still wonder why I felt so compelled to ride to the Red River of the North on a day when I knew the ride would be so difficult. And why had I returned for the rope? And why had I decided (after stopping half way) to continue? And why didn't I stop to rest under the bridge as I normally did? And why had I changed direction to go back to the spillway? And why was the rope was just long enough to reach a little bump in the ice where I was able to get the needed leverage to help pull Stephanie out of the icy water?

I believe God answered their prayers for help -- and sent an "Angel on Assignment."

Proper Falling Etiquette And The Hotdish Angel

We were almost on our way to church. The kids and I were waiting in the car for my wife as she took care of the last minute preparations with the Au Gratin potatoes. There was going to be a potluck meal following the morning service.
The sidewalk was icy.
When she came out the front door in a rather hurried fashion I quickly got out of the car to help her down the sidewalk.
But she motored out the door and toward the car faster than I thought and so I didn’t get to her side in time to help.
She was clutching the not-yet-cooked Au Gratin potato hotdish (which meant it was still pretty watery) with both hands.
Then it happened.
She slipped. Her feet went right out from under her in sort of a cartoonish fashion and she landed on her back.
In slow motion I uttered, “OHHHHH NNNNNOOOOOOOOO!
In just a split second she was in the prone position lying flat on her back on the icy sidewalk.
But!
I don’t know if everyone does (I probably slept through that class in Bible school), but for sure my wife has some sort of hotdish guardian angel. And that hotdish angel must have taken an elective in “How to catch the hotdish casserole in mid air and make it land without spilling a drop.”
Because the hotdish landed on her JUST AS IF IT HAD BEEN GENTLY SET ON THE TABLE! And not one single drop of those watery Au Gratins was spilled!
She got up as though nothing had happened, got in the car, and said, “Let’s Go!”
I could hardly believe what I had just seen. A few people have witnessed firsthand a genuine miracle of someone rising from the dead, but I’ll bet no one has ever witnessed a greater hotdish miracle!

I have fallen on numerous occasions, but never with such class and grace.


When I was about 14 or 15 I slipped and fell down the entire flight of stairs that went into the lower level of the old White Drug in downtown Fargo. That’s where the restaurant was and I guess that’s where I needed to get to in a big hurry. I am guessing the patrons thought, “Wow, is that kid hungry!”

Several years ago three of my coworkers and I made a day long tour of the regional clinics that we ordered supplies for. When we stopped to fill up with gas, I got out and began to work the pump. The pavement was a little icy where the water dripped off the canopy over the pumps (make that -- right where I was standing).

Whoosh…Kersplat! Down I went. I think my coworker said something like, “I was looking out the car window…you were there…and then you were gone!” I didn’t get too dirty, but I landed smack dab on my ego.

Another time I fell getting out of the car at work. Again, it was that dreaded invisible ice. Down I went. And when I fall, my first reaction isn’t, “Is blood spurting from my head?” Or, “Is my arm supposed to be in this weird angle?” Its, “DID ANYONE SEE ME?!” I just want to make sure nobody witnessed my triple klutz sow kow (or whatever that figure skating term is). I quickly surveyed the parking lot and it didn’t seem like anyone was looking. But I lay perfectly motionless for a few moments just to make sure the coast was clear. And if someone had seen me and said, “Sir, sir, sir!!! Is this a piece of your arm? Are you OK?” I was just gonna crawl partway under the car and talk in a real loud voice, “Yep, the muffler bearings appear to be ok!”

But perhaps my most dramatic fall occurred on a cold wintry evening one winter. The snow was pretty deep on the roof of our double-wide mobile home and I needed to shovel some off and make sure the vents were clear. I leaned the top of the ladder against the roof edge but the bottom was positioned on the rather slippery deck surface. (Note the word “slippery.”)

I got onto the roof and shoveled off some snow and cleared off the vents. On my way down the ladder it happened. The bottom slipped out away from the house and toward the edge of the deck. That motion allowed just enough clearance for the top of the ladder to move rapidly past the roof edge and toward the side of the mobile home. And that motion caused one side of the top of the ladder to crash through the kitchen window. And that motion caused me to flip upside down with one of my snowmobile boots stuck on a ladder rung. (Read that again very slowly…”I flipped upside down!”)

Gravity seems to be stronger in northern Minnesota in the winter because during my rather rapid swing to upsidedowndom, I severely bruised my arm.

My wife came outside to see if I was ok. “You broke the kitchen window!” were the VERY FIRST WORDS out of her mouth as I hung upside down on the ladder.

By the time I got unhooked from dangling upside down on the ladder on that cold wintry night, I was one mad preacher. My form of retribution? I went inside and didn’t speak one single word to her…I just showed her my ginormous black and blue contusion. (That sounds a lot more dramatic than when I first wrote this story and typed, "...my ginormous black and blue owie").

I have often wondered since then, “How come my wife gets a really gifted hotdish angel, but my ladder angel seemed to be a bit of a klutz?”

“Therefore let him who thinks he stands take heed lest he fall.” (1 Corinthians 10:12)