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Body language tells stories at county fairs. It can be gleaned from a distance in silence that engulfs the din of tractor pulls, polka bands, ballgames and the Tilt-a-Whirl.

 

The reigning demolition derby champ at the county fair had a win-streak five years running. He needed just one more title to become the first ever with six consecutive championships in the same station wagon.

 

The final two cars in that competition were driven by the champ and a rookie with obnoxious swagger.

 

 

 

Early on a Fourth of July morning, hours before holiday festivities kicked into gear, I met a friend and his children as we walked across the grocery store parking lot. He was at the end of their family procession trooping toward the door. We exchanged local pleasantries about the day ahead, pretty mundane stuff, then went about our business.

 

I saw him again later that day. But this time, I about did backflips to attract his attention from the porch where I was standing.

 

 

The group of nine parents, siblings, cousins, aunties and uncles endured the arduous twelve-hour drive to the outfitter in northern Minnesota. But the anticipation of backcountry canoeing and camping fueled their resolve. With unshackled enthusiasm, they unpacked, then repacked their gear to prepare for a week of paddling. Two eleven-year-old twin brothers were particularly incapable of containing their fever to get on-trail.

 

 

I’d like to think I’m pretty good at keeping confidential matters under wraps. But sometimes I’ve gone overboard and actually kept secrets from myself. That’s what happened with my marriage proposal to my wife DyAnne. I’d been moseying through our relationship for so long that the voices of the Universe basically had to club me over the head. Once I woke up, asking her to marry me carried such weight that I wasn’t going to let it slip by without some fanfare.

 

 

She was born with gifted intelligence not so much in a bookworm way, but more of a Hannibal Lecter way: she can peer into my soul and know she’s got me cornered. It’s helping shape me as her dad.

 

Her name is Mustang Sally and by definition she’s an Alaskan husky, a working dog. Through centuries of DNA, she was designed by nature to pull. It’s an attribute not always conducive to transforming a husky into a house dog. But her work includes a side gig.

 

 

My dad was director of outdoor recreation during a family camping trip when I was too young to understand what “laugh about it later” meant. At the time, I’m not sure Dad understood it either, but he was determined to show us the outdoor life. The guy took a beating in my behalf.

 

It began with marshmallow practice after our first breakfast. We’d be having s’mores throughout the week and he coached my sister and me on how to cook a perfectly toasted marshmallow.

 

 

Eight people stood on a wilderness overlook with their backs to the pristine lake below. Not one of them held a camera. They were seemingly oblivious to the glorious backdrop behind them. Instead, they gazed at renderings on a sheer cliff directly against the gravel road opposite the lake.

 

 

By the time I left high school, I had the remainder of my life pretty much mapped out. Consequently, I should have been inducted to the NHL Hall of Fame twenty years ago. Oddly enough, that career plan began to siderail the summer after high school graduation.

 

Throughout childhood, I dreamed of playing goalie. But these years later, I can see how my mom and dad were in cahoots to nudge me elsewhere.

 

 

 

My wife and I sat down in the backyard clutching two cans of perfectly frosted Hamm’s beer. For early June, the day was scorching hot. I had finished cutting our grass earlier and reached a good stopping point. All other yard chores would wait. We settled in for an evening of quiet inactivity and baseball on the radio.

 

No sooner had the cold sizzle of beer hit my throat, than our neighbor’s hired grasscutter fired up his supercharged ride’m lawnmower next door.

 

Its name is Buyck, an unincorporated hamlet in Northern Minnesota just a few miles southwest of Canada. Actually, if I trailed a deer there during hunting season, I could have unwittingly crossed the international border…with a loaded gun.