This year, like so many years in the past, the goal in January was to ‘get in shape’.  “Get in  shape” is an umbrella term for basically losing 15 or 20.....(maybe 25 pounds).

I joke that I start each year with good intentions but by half time of the Rose Bowl, I am back to my old ways.    This year, the goal was the same, but the timetable was way off.  I don’t think I even attempted any new healthy habits in January.

It was the same old excuses and some new ones.  I was traveling a lot to start the year, including speaking gigs.    Looking back at the calendar, the first seven weekends of the new year, I was out of town for six of those.  Then throw in the KNEB Farm and Ranch Expo, a mid week trip to Lincoln, another speaking gig this time in Western Kansas, all the nasty weather; suddenly starting an exercise routine was on the back burner.

Finally last weekend I made it Brown Shoe Fit for a new pair of walking shoes. I made another purchase that day, a pedometer.  

Maybe this is the missing link.  I have invested in exercise equipment, videos, more exercise equipment.  Maybe all I need is a simple little devise attached to my belt or sweatpants.

The goal, according to the instructions is 10,000 feet a day.  Roughly 5 miles.

That sliver of obsessive compulsiveness that runs through my veins needs to look at the meter to see just how many steps I have taken that day.   Did I reach 10,000? Can I get to 15,000?  How many steps can I get in before breakfast? How many steps can I do after work?   How many steps can I get in a consecutive two day period? Three day period? In a week?  

You get the picture.

Maybe I need a numbers game to play in my head each day.   I worry about making the meter tick, and the fitness and weight issues, eventually take care of themselves.

Since the great experiment began a week ago, I have hit at least 10,000 steps each day.  The 12,000, 14,000 and 15,000 plateaus have been hit as well.

Knowing my history, my weaknesses and my quirks, it is way too early to proclaim victory.  But with Spring approaching, a new pair of walking shoes and a pedometer, maybe this year will be different.

Who dat...who dat...who dat say dey gonna beat dem Saints?   

Congratulations to New Orleans, Super Bowl Champions.  Residents of the Big Easy never need a reason to celebrate.  Now, a Super Bowl Championship on the cusp of Mardi Gras.....all decent folks need to take cover.

More than once I’ve chronicled about my time down on the Bayou.  One of my favorite quotes was from an Iowa farmer who just returned from Mardi Gras. “In New Orleans,” he said,  “they do things in public that we in Iowa don’t even do in private.” 

That about sums it up.

Just like after the NFC Championship, my phone started ringing and buzzing as soon as it was apparent the Saints would win.  The old grad school gang was in rare form.  You could hear the emotion in their voices and see the excitement in their text messages.

The closest thing I have to compare is when Tom Osborne won his first National Championship after the 1994 season.   I’ll never forget the euphoria that rattled the walls in the basement of the American Legion Club in Loomis after Nebraska beat Miami in the Orange Bowl.

Take that feeling times an entire city, an entire state and an entire region.  Casual observers across the country were probably rooting for the Black and Gold, too.    One can’t look at the images of Katrina and not want the city to succeed.

After the game I tuned into WWL in New Orleans.  Ol’ Charlie Smart here was originally trying to dial up 870 AM.  It dawned on me, that I might be able to listen on line, which I did.

Deke Bellavia and Bobby Hebert were broadcasting live from Deanie’s Restaurant in the French Quarter.  The first words I heard through my computer speaker that night, “hell yeah....”   It was the former Saints quarterback, Hebert, who like most of the city, was well into the celebration process.

In fact, those two words punctuated nearly every sentence that came out of Bobby’s mouth.   While it was suppose to be a call-in show, few got a chance to express their opinions.   They’d call up, some in tears.... “Bobby, I am so happy. I’ve never been so happy in my entire...”

“I know how you feel, Carol, its a great for the city of New Orleans...a great day for the state of Louisiana....a great day for the Gulf Coast...a great day for the nation.  This team showed heart and courage.  People never gave us a chance.  People kept talking about Peyton Manning.   But never count out Drew Breese.  Never count out Sean Payton. Never count out the New Orleans Saints.   I’m so proud of this team. And now we can say: We’re Super Bowl Champs!!!  WHO DAT?  Hell, yeah.”   

Next caller.

For the 30 minutes or so that I listened, that’s how it went.  A few words from a caller, an interruption, followed by a rambling tirade from Bobby.

Radio at its finest.

I went to bed that night trying to imagine the raucous celebration down on Bourbon Street.  When I got up some six hours later, I realized that the bars were just now closing and that the revelry, while somewhat muffled, probably still continued.

As the party-goers staggered away in search of sleep, a beignet or another Hurricane, I’m sure the battle cry went out.  “Who dat...who dat...who dat say dey gonna beat dem Saints?”

Nobody this year.




 

For all my friends on the Bayou, Mardi Gras came early this year. Garrett Hartley’s game winning 40-yard field goal had barely touched the net in the end when my cell phone starting ringing and getting text messages.  The Saints were going to the Super Bowl!

Mary, Elia, Richie, Kirch and Pac all chimed in.  OMG!!!!!!   WHO DAT?  

Richie called. I could hear people screaming with delight in the background. Elia’s text message, no doubt from French Quarter, described people dancing in the street.  I tried calling her back, but all circuits were busy.  A later text message announced that she had already booked her hotel room in Miami.  Kim’s email the next day included the world ‘delirium’.  Kim and her husband Sonny, were also working on a trip to South Florida.

The Sunday that hosts the NFC-AFC Championship games is probably my favorite sports day of the year, (barring a big Husker game).  Championship Sunday traditionally provides better games than the much hyped Super Bowl.   There are the frenzied home crowds.....the rivalries.....the chance to play for all the marbles.

Having the Saints in the game was just icing on the cake. This close to Mardi Gras we’d better make that King Cake.

Had New Orleans not been in the game, it would have been easy to root for the Vikings.  First, the Favre Factor. Those of us who are middle age like to root for guys with gray in the hair and wrinkles on their face.  Second, there’s the culture.  I have more in common with the fans in Minnesota than those in New York or Los Angeles.   Besides, the Land of 10,000 Lakes is home to several Swedish cousins on my mother’s side. Yah, yah.

This fall when my Cajun buddies were in Lincoln for the UL-Lafayette game, the Saints were a main topic of conversation.   New Orleans was undefeated during the young season and enthusiasm was already running high.

Friend Chris Packard, aka Pac, kept us in stitches as he impersonated a popular Saints radio call in show, hosted by former Saints quarterback Bobby Hebert.

“Bobby....Bobby” he’d say, all with his thick Creole-Cajun accent.  “This is Ronnie in Westwego. I got a feelin’ Bobby, we’re going to the Super Bowl!   And Bobby, my brother just opening a roofing business. Now, he’s not licensed or bonded yet, but Bobby he’s a fine man......”   

“OK, bud, thanks. Next caller....”

“Bobby....Bobby.....this is T-Boy from Bucktown.  I got a feelin’ Bobby.  We’re going to the Super Bowl.   And Bobby, my brother-in-law has got this restaurant in Chalmette.  The red beans and rice are so good you’ll slap your mamma.....”

You get the picture.

The build up down on the Bayou will be unbelievable. I plan to keep in touch with the old gang in the coming days. I may even tune in to WWL in New Orleans some night for a little local flavor.

“Bobby...Bobby.... I told  you, Bobby.   We’re going to the Super Bowl!”

This Christmas, as part of my gift giving, I presented my nieces and nephew with a notebook of stories; family stories to be precise.   The storyteller in me thinks its important, especially for younger generations, to understand a least a little bit about those who came before.  

From a genealogy standpoint, my family is probably more documented than most.  Years ago, individuals on both sides of the family, were diligent and dedicated in regard to examining the family tree.  Not everyone can name a set of their great, great, great, great, great, great grandparents.  (For the record: Glaf Borjesson and Kirsten Nilsdotter, along with Johan Persson and Anna Ericsdotter in case you are scoring at home).  

I don’t have any dates as to when they were born or died.  I do know that some of their children were born in the 1720s; which would probably take the before- mentioned Swedish ancestors back to the late 1600’s.  

Fast forward a few hundred years, one of the stories I included in my book was about my grandmother, Agnes Larson.  My dad was the fifth of seven boys, and considering I came along late in life, it’s not too mind boggling to comprehend that my grandmother was born in 1884.  

Through snippets of family stories from my father, Elliott, and my uncles, I pieced together the events of 70 years ago.   My nieces and nephew now know more about their great grandmother.  And in her honor, I share it with you.    It is entitled, Casualties of War.
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Maybe she was in the kitchen baking.  Agnes Larson was renowned for her walnut
cake.  Her specialty dessert was just as popular at church socials as it was at the family dinner table.
 
Maybe she was doing laundry. Having raised seven boys during the 20s and
30s, Grandma Larson was no stranger to strenuous, backbreaking work.  Though the years my uncles all told stories of clean, neatly pressed, white cotton shirts hanging on the staircase.  Even though it was the Great Depression, the Larson boys looked sharp when they went to town on Saturday night.
 
Whatever she was doing that fall day, the official looking letter from the
government made her stop in her tracks.
 
By November of 1941 the drumbeat of war was growing louder and louder, and
once again the reverberations were being felt on the Larson homestead in Phelps County.  Agnes Larson already had two sons in the military; Elliott and Roland.  Now, an official looking letter arrived addressed to Warren; the youngest, her baby.
 
The thought of sending a third son off to a likely war sent a wave of panic
through the 57-year old.  Letter clenched tightly in her hand, she raced out
the kitchen door, a 1/2 mile down the road where husband Henry and sons
Elton and Warren were picking corn.
 
Somewhere between the kitchen door and the cornfield, that impromptu sprint
triggered a heart attack.
 
She was admitted later that day to the Holdrege Hospital. Family members
were told that if she lived 2 weeks, she would probably be OK.  Grandma Agnes Larson died 13 days later.  Faded family memories seem to think it was a blood clot that caused her death.  
 
No family members made it to visit her on that unlucky 13th day; a regret
that was shared over and over again through the years by my father and
uncles.  "If only," they would recall, "someone would have stopped by to see
her. Maybe she would have lived."
 
The war that she had worried about, the war that she had feared, was now at hand.  She didn't live to see the attack on Pearl Harbor less than two weeks later. She didn't  live to see all the death and carnage. She didn't live to see the advent of nuclear war.  Most importantly, she didn't live to see Elliott, Roland and Warren all safely return from the war.
 
Those who knew her talk about how caring and kind and compassionate she was.  Whenever there was a newcomer or visitor at church, it was Agnes Larson who went out of her way to talk to them and make them feel welcome.  

A faded newspaper clipping reports that over 500 mourners packed Westmark
Church for her funeral.   Nearly 70 years later, probably still the record for the largest funeral in the history of that small country church.

You won't find Agnes Larson's name on any plaque. President Roosevelt did
not send the family a letter of condolence.  Her name is not engraved on a
marble slab as part of a long over-due memorial.  Yet, it could be argued,
that Agnes Larson was one of the first casualties of World War II.

Wow.  Too bad the Huskers couldn’t have saved a few of those points for Virginia Tech, Iowa State and of course, Texas.

The dormant Nebraska offense emerged from hibernation against a very good Arizona defense in the Holiday Bowl.  And the Blackshirts did what Blackshirts do, dominate. I’m sure Bo enjoyed pitching a shutout against his old friend.

Wednesday afternoon I got a call from a good friend and Wildcat fan in Arizona.  We both hoped for a good game. I told him if the U of A scored 14 points, they might win the game.   Glad I was wrong.

In recent weeks I was optimistic, figuring that the long layoff would heal bumps and bruises. Also there would be time to add a new wrinkle or two.   Nebraska came through on both counts. The “Wildcat Offense” with Rex Burkhead, gave the Wildcats a major headache.

Hard to tell what a big win in a bowl game means for a program. That added swagger helps when coaches walk into a recruit’s home.    I know a big win helps the fans.  Chatter in the hallways at KNEB was lively Thursday morning.   I’m sure it was the same around water coolers, coffee shops and bars from here to Omaha.

Optimism (and confidence) will not be in short supply for Husker Nation.  Bo keeps saying that next year’s team will be better.   Nothing like pouring a little fuel on the fire.

The Holiday Bowl was like a visit from the Ghost of Husker Past.  A big game, a national TV audience, a dominating performance.   When was the last time we could relax half way through a big game?   If Wednesday’s night performance was indeed a glimpse of the Ghost of Husker Future, then we can take Bo at his word.  “Nebraska is back, and here to stay.”

Winter just got a little warmer.  By the way, the Spring Game is only 107 days away.