If you haven't heard anyone talking about Yellowstone, the documentary or the series, you must not be exposing yourself to the outside world. Facebook has exploded with talk of Yellowstone Season Five, 1923, 1883 and the documentary about Yellowstone Park and its 150 anniversary.

People are buying Yellowstone tee shirts and cowboy clothing. That is how I came to watch Yellowstone in the first place. Yes, I had heard it was a great series, but that's it.

So, one day at the market two years ago, someone stopped by with a tee shirt that read, "Don't make me go Beth Dutton on you."

"Who's Beth Dutton?" I said.

Simultaneously, my daughter and the customer both said, "Yellowstone."

Okay, I bit. I love westerns, and they don't make them as often as they used to. I also love Kevin Costner. Always have. It's not his award-winning movies I love either; it's the apocalyptic ones like Water World and The Postman. Then there's Dances with Wolves.

Once they moved the first four seasons to Peacock, I decided to try it. It's a modern-day ranch with a smack of violence -- i.e., the train station. At first, I was astonished at the number of murders that no one seemed to investigate or get in trouble for.

Then there's Beth Dutton. Wow. The first two seasons led me to believe she was a troubled woman who desperately needed to stop drinking and get help. Watching Beth Dutton in action made me question the tee shirts and other swag from the show promoting her bad behavior. She's an intelligent businesswoman, but I wouldn't want to be on the wrong side of that tough lady.

The plot revolves around the loss of a ranch in Montana that Costner (John Dutton) holds with stubborn determination in his possession and heart. He staves off development and cherishes what Montana offers in its natural beauty. He promised his father never to sell the land and continues to find his way out of the rancher's debt experienced by many today.

Development happens, and I, too, hate to see the farmland around me turned into housing developments, which brings me to two endearing statements made by Beth Dutton. As some of you know, I am purging my stuff. It's been immensely satisfying, and I don't know why I kept most of the things I am now distributing to the outside world, and the fire pit. Of course, my children do not want anything. 

That brings me to the first thing Beth said that struck a chord in my soul. "Dad, people don't value what you value anymore."

Sad, but true. 

Recent hoar frost created a winter wonderland in our area. It was breathtaking to see the beauty of the landscape after Jack Frost brushed every twig and branch on every tree, every fence and piece of patio furniture with the purest white ever imagined.

I am fortunate to live with wildlife. In addition to the beauty of ocean-like waves of snow drifts in the surrounding fields, we walk to the mailbox daily with turkeys, deer, pheasant, raccoons, rabbits, squirrels and whatever birds decide to stay behind. These things enrich my life beyond most everything, except my children and grandchildren. Sometimes I wonder if people ever look at the moon every night, grateful for its steadfast waxing and waning,

This thought brings me to Beth's second statement, "The things I love and find most beautiful I like to keep to myself."

Walking outdoors or standing in front of a window, I drink in the beauty, observe the nature of the wildlife and count my blessings every day. I love that. It made me feel not so selfish about NOT taking photos and sharing them as often as I used to on social media. I have words, but they cannot express the feelings I share with the Duttons as they try and hold on to what they value in the land, of the land.

Our surroundings have changed considerably in the past 15 years. There is no darkness out here anymore. As far as my eyes can see, there are so many new lights on the horizon that it makes me sad. I mourn for the days of my youth and the simplistic life we led. 

But, it is the way.

Then there's Beth's heart-throb husband, Rip. That's a whole other story.

This is the Christmas I became my mother. It wasn’t planned. I’m not sure it was even supposed to happen, but it did. It’s the way of the world. One generation replaces the other.

It’s easy to go about your day with confidence if you forget to check the mirror before you leave the house. In my mind I am still 21 and looking foxy. That is until I pass by a large window with the sun behind me and my reflection stares back at me in amazement.

“Who are you?”

“I am the new you.”

“You don’t look too new to me. You look like my mother. My mother, my aunts — that’s who looks like that, but not me.”

It is the way and while I might be shocked at how old I have become, I feel very blessed to be as healthy and productive as I am these days. In that respect I am totally my mom.

Mom has been gone for about five or six years now. For some reason, this year, the year my dad passed away has amplified my missing her. Missing both of them. 

And, now its Christmas. Things have been so very different this year, I’m not sure if its the two weeks of bad weather holding things up, you know like mail and packages and trips to the store with empty shelves, or something else.

I always wondered why my mom started short-cutting things as she aged. Giving money instead of gifts at Christmas or not putting up a tree or using frozen dough for dinner rolls at the big meal we used to have at their house.

My Christmas spirit got up and left. It began with stuff at my church of 30+ years. Then, what do you buy your children when they have jobs that net them more money than I could imagine earning in my lifetime. Sure, I could make them things, but they don’t even need that kind of stuff… stuff everywhere. I’m guilty of that also.

Since my “retirement” (and I use that word loosely) in April, I have begun a sort of purge. For the past 40 years I have been walking over Christmas cards and letters bundled by year in plastic tubs stored in the “root cellar.” These pieces of paper and colored card stock are filled with memories, people I can’t remember, people I love and stay in tough with, and handwriting. Yes, cursive handwriting. I found that children can’t even read cursive anymore. We, JC and I, actually got into a convo with someone last Saturday about why he thinks they don’t need it anymore. I tend to disagree. In the future there will a special office with trained staff just to decipher cursive handwritten documents.


As I have been casually going through them picking out a few items for a “second” review, I found artwork and letters and thank you notes and tons of photos of smiling children or families together for a Christmas photo. It was like my life was passing before my eyes as I watched my friends’ (Karen Benson McMahon for one) children grow up and then have children of their own. I have yet to finish this particular project but have emptied one or two bins.


Next, were boxes of beautiful German glass Christmas ornaments from the days of the old Kelsch house. I lived in downtown Mandan in a house that was meant for Christmas. My tree was real and stood high under beamed ceilings. With an old thick red carpet over the hardwood floors and a real fireplace, I decorated with old ornaments collected at rummage sales in the 80s, strung popcorn, glass blown icicles from someplace like Sundance and loads and loads of love. Don’t get me wrong, I do have still have a tree. It’s from Lavonne’s Hallmark in Mandan, when Mandan had a Hallmark store. It is the color of the Grinch. It’s decorated with beaded spiders we did as a craft project one year for something to do after dinner with the relatives.

It’s not the same.

My thinking is if I give these treasured items to my daughter, daughter-in-law and two sister-in-law I might still enjoy them on a tree instead of in boxes as they have been for the past 15 years.

After that task, we planned an early Christmas dinner. Rather than fuss with a turkey, we served Salisbury steak, green bean casserole, mashed potatoes and Jell-O mold, among other dishes. It was a nice 50s-style meal and I am still paying for it as I type this essay. Okay, typing is an archaic work I’m told. I’m keyboarding this piece. Doesn’t sound the same now does it?

We had our Christmas early, so we wouldn’t tax the children as they have more than four Christmas obligations over the course of the holiday and we are clearing our days for the biggest event of the year, J.C.’s birthday. He’s not getting any younger either. NOT. We are expecting a granddaughter, named Audenia Mae Barnhard, sister to the Fabulous Miss Elle, on Dec. 30., from my daughter, Claire, and her new husband Jason.

And, then in April, another grandchild, a yet-to-be-named boy, giving Lucy and Oliver a younger brother. So heartwarming, that’s seven grandchildren.

Of course, that’s nothing compared to the 40-60 grandchildren (my cousins) that we used to see at Christmas time at my grandparent’s home.

Somehow I thought those days would never end, but they did and my aunts and uncles are slowing moving to the “kingdom” so they can be together again — no more sorrow, no more tears, no more pain. There’s a lot of that going on in the world today. I told J.C. “We need to have some parties so we can see people outside of all the funerals we had this year — friends and family”

Finally, there’s the Christmas card thing. I used to design a special card ever year and write a note (not a long one) in each of them. That didn’t happen, not even close. Rather than order special cards, I thought I would send out the ones that I inherited from my father when we cleaned out his house for the last time (yes, we had about three or four or five go-arounds moving them from their house in Gackle, to Jamestown to the assisted living to nursing home and back again more than once). Why waste a good card. That’s my mother talking for sure. 

Battling the snow and doing farmers markets well into December meant I was busy filling pfeffernusse cookie orders and making fingerless gloves. For some reason I just can’t quit buying yarn and then playing in my studio. I thought without a full-time job I would be able to design my heart out. NOT. Somehow life gets in the way. 

Therefore, if you did not receive a card from me, it’s because with the best of intentions I wanted to take the time to write in them and handwrite your address on the envelope and use of all the mismatched cards hiding in my closet, but I haven’t gotten that far yet. I don’t know — blame it on the knitting machine or recovering the lampshades or shoveling snow. Or maybe this year I need some transitioning time to my new role as the “elder” of the family.

Being my mother means cutting back on dinners, scaled back gifts to the children (not that my children complained about the sacks of money I distributed to a select few), hopefully fun and useful things to the grandchildren, downsizing and all the things that go with it. Unlike my mother, who liked to stay home even more than myself, I am going to attempt a trip southward at the end of the month to see the new granddaughter and warm up a little. It’s not easy for me to be away from my house for an extended period of time, but I am willing to try.
​
Well, this is the longest Christmas essay I have done in a long time. Rather than working on my Christian Apocalyptic love story, my Kaseman family history book or my other books circling my brain looking to get out of my brain, I had to empty my heart of its unnamed feelings about Christmas this year. It’s a mixture of grief, loss, gain, family, memories and snow — lots and lots of snow.

BUT, as the story goes, “He hadn’t stopped Christmas from coming. Somehow it came, it came just the same.” Here’s to a Merry Christmas to you all and a healthy New Year filled with sunshine and not so much snow, although we need the moisture.

Love to you all my friends and family. I feel better already.

Here is an old newspaper column I wrote after chaperoning a mission trip to New York with some lovely young men and women. Such sweet memories.

​I’m feeling a bit like Dan Ulmer this week in as much as I kissed the ground at the Minneapolis airport after spending seven days in New York City, plus two days of travel time.

It was not a sightseeing trip, but I saw many sights. There were 23 youth, ages 14-18, from Charity Lutheran Church chaperoned by four adults on this particular journey to the inner city under the guidance of the New York School of Urban Ministry in Queens, New York.

It was the most awesome and the most grueling week I have ever spent away from home.

New York City has population of 8,104,079 in five boroughs – Bronx, Queens, Brooklyn, Manhattan and Staten Island. I have been to each of them.

Our group traveled by subway for the most part. My neck was stiff from counting 23 heads over and over as we made our way around New York on the public transit system. It is not a new thing for these people. Rapid transit, consisting of above ground El (elevated) trains, began as early as 1829 transporting tourists to Coney Island in Brooklyn. At that time Coney Island was a popular resort destination. That wasn't the case for us.

It was Oct. 27, 1904, that the Inter borough Rapid Transit Subway, or IRT, became the first subway company in New York City. Even with elevated train lines springing up around the city, the need for an underground rapid transit railroad was obvious as a solution to street congestion in an ever growing city and also to assist development in outlying areas. With this new mode of underground transportation, the subway, New York would never be the same. The subway system in New York celebrates over 100 years of public transportation.

Living on the plains, we don't really fancy public transportation, but it’s a good thing in a way. For a week, I didn’t have to worry about gas or car maintenance, not to mention driving in New York’s very narrow streets. You see, not every place in the world has the wide-open country side like we do.

Our first day in the city began at Coney Island. Only those of us over the age of 40 had even heard of it before this trip. At the mention of the name, people wrinkle their noses, and ask “you didn’t go into the water, did you.” Not really. We did walk over the hot sand to the shore line, but we were there primarily to serve the soup and bread from a mobile kitchen to people barely surviving in this high-rent city. 

It was hot in New York City, very hot, but the men, women and children were grateful, many asking for extra bread to take home. It could be the only food they had to eat that day.

During the course of the rest of the week... 

I saw Ground Zero, and I saw people sleeping on the ground.

I saw the Statue of Liberty and I prayed for freedom from the things that tie people to this earth.

I saw Trump Tower, and I towered over broken people lying on the street.

I saw Phantom of the Opera and I saw what personal ghosts can do to people.

I saw trees growing out of the tops of skyscrapers and I saw teenagers grow up.

I saw Times Square, and witnessed the power of Pastor David Wilkinson preach at Times Square Church.

I saw the neon cross of St. Paul’s Mission, located in Manhattan’s west side, that reads “Get right with God.” This cross, in New York's 'Hell's Kitchen' district, appears in the opening credits of 1970s Saturday Night Live episodes. Another one of those trivial bits of information that gets lost on the younger than 40 crowd.

That group of youngsters had never been exposed to our particular type of upscale accommodations. We slept in an old hospital wing with no air conditioning. We ate cafeteria style and had to take turns with kitchen duty. We barely had time to sleep with NYSUM's mission schedule taking us out the door by 6:30 a.m. and sometimes not getting back until midnight.

Perhaps, it was this lack of rest that caused us all to feel like New York City rocked and swayed all the time. The subway trains rocked on the tracks. The sidewalks rocked with the subways running underneath. The churches rocked with the Holy Spirit.

There hasn't been time to digest it all. 

I just remember being like 27 little white lights walking around in a city of diverse ethnic groups. 

I am sure there are New Yorkers that will never forget we were there, and that we will never forget New York either.

Those curly tops from garlic are fantastic as a mild garlic flavoring, pesto or hummus.


This summer's weather has been very unpredictable. I'm disappointed in my prowess as a gardener as there are many battles to fight this year. Mother Nature always wins.

As you may or may not know, as farmer market vendors, we educate the public on seasonal eating, canning, gardening and using everything that gardens provide. My first large harvest after the lettuce and Chinese cabbage is garlic scapes. Seeing how people react to the bunches of curly stems at the market is fun.

If you are a garlic grower, you know that garlic must be planted in mid-October, sometime around or shortly after the 15th of the month. It's planted deep, watered in and mulched to protect it from the coming winter. Then, we let Mother Nature take her course. 

In the spring, it begins to show itself under the mulch. Since garlic can tolerate light frost, it's time to uncover the bulbs. It's also time to add blood or bone meal for fertilization and water. Scapes will appear at the end of June.

It's best to clip them right away. Scapes are the seed pods, and we want all the garlic's energy to go towards the bulb hiding deep within the soil. By that, I mean when garlic grabs the earth, it's there for the duration.

Harvesting scapes does two things. It increases the size of the garlic, and you can use them instead of garlic in stir-fries, salads, loaves of bread, etc. Not only that, but one of my favorite things this time of year is garlic scape pesto. I eat it by the spoonful — no vampires in this household.

So, here is a recipe for Garlic Scape Pesto. Traditionally pesto is made with basil. I'm not too fond of the taste of basil, so this is a delight for sure. Use it as a dip for veggies or pita bread or toss it with hot pasta for a light evening meal.


Garlic Scape Pesto
• 8 garlic scapes (1/2 cup chopped)
• 1/2 cup shredded Parmesan cheese
• 1/2 cup walnuts (you can substitute sunflower seeds)
• 1 cup basil leaves
• 1/4 teaspoon kosher salt
• 1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice
• 1/2 cup olive oil, plus more if desired

Once you have processed your pesto, here is how you make a pasta dish.

How to Use Pesto Sauce
When you combine pasta with a refined sauce like pesto, the best pasta to use is one with holes or twists and turns that will sop up more of the sauce. Choose penne, fusilli, bucatini, campanelli, cavatelli, ditalini, but don't count out straight pasta like fettuccine if that's all you have.

Cook 1 pound of pasta of choice in salted water. When pasta is al dente, remove from the heat and drain.

In a large bowl, combine 3/4 cup room-temperature pesto with 2/3 cup hot pasta water. 

Add drained pasta to the bowl and toss to combine. Add lemon juice, salt, and pepper to taste. Toss again and serve immediately.

Here's hoping you had a wonderful Fourth of July holiday. The Dog Days of summer are coming right up. Enjoy.

My son has a birthday next week. He will be 36. He has a wife, two children, a good job and my father’s name. There is nothing on this planet I could buy online or in a store that he doesn’t already have, so I decided I would give him words for his birthday.
 
After my daughter was born three years earlier, I thought I could never love anyone as much as I loved her. I was wrong. Adam was a good baby. He was born on a Saturday night, June 29. We lived in a neighborhood of townhouses with 46 children under the age of 12. It was around 9 p.m. on a warm summer’s eve as we got into the car to go to the hospital with nearly all the families on our street sitting on their front steps waving us off.
 
Unlike my daughter, my son looked like me; his son looked like him. It’s almost uncanny, but he always says, “who would you think my son looks like, if not me?” Adam has a sense of humor. He’s also very frugal, as one would expect from someone Russian-German.
 
We traveled together when he was young, into middle school and midway through high school. He was the best of traveling companions sitting in the car for 8-10 hour stretches, helping carry canopies and boxes of woven clothes. He loved funnel cake. He helped other artists unload products or walk dogs to earn money for these sweet treats. His favorite road food was Subway sandwiches.
 
At home, we communicated with a notebook on the kitchen counter. As I was sorting through “stuff” in my basement trying to hygge my house, I found this page from one of those many notebooks. It was a grocery list.
 
Milk
Eggs
Bread
Lettuce
Party Pizzas, pepperoni, please
We don’t need cheese
We have the ones in square.
You should get one pear.
We have good soda pop,
But we don’t have any lollipops.
We have good breakfast food.
Would it be rude
For me to ask for corned beef hash?
On your way home, don’t crash.
That’s it for today,
Be back right away…
Also plums.
 
In addition to being very careful with his money and writing poetry, he made up great words that I wish I had recorded for posterity’s sake.
 
Adam’s youthful claim to fame was his skateboarding. From the time he could walk, he skateboarded. People would stop as they drove by my house to watch this tyke cruising down the sidewalk. As he grew and developed skills, he partnered with a couple of friends and made videos of skateboarding. Mandan didn’t have a park then, so after being banned from many parking lots and stairways around town, the boys got together and petitioned the city commission and park board to build a skate park. While that may have been one of my proudest moments, watching some skating mishaps still gives me goosebumps.
 
So, as another year passes and I cannot think of a thing you need from me, I give you this. You are my son. I love you. You have grown into a responsible man with a family, and I couldn’t be prouder of your accomplishments. I miss our travels together, especially the history lesson trip following the Lewis and Clark trail west, visiting all those historic sites and camping along the Salmon River in the Sawtooth Mountain range the day before they closed the park for the annual salmon spawn. Here’s to your extraordinary life, my number one son.
​
Happy Birthday.

Love, Mom.