The Blaisdell Blog

  I have limited sympathy for those who lost their shirt or pride in the cryptocurrency meltdown.  Crypto is nothing more than the 21st century’s version of Amway.  They just substituted block chains for circles.  Other than that, it’s the same old schtick.    It is a curiosity to me that people who have never taken a class in economics are sure they have a good bead on how to beat the system.  They think that people who play by the rules are suckers.  The smart people (like them—right?) use the odd hustle that plays the system and earns them easy money.  These are the same people who loudly sing the blues when the “con” turns out to be on them.   There is a saying among the sales community that people only buy for two reasons: need or greed.  [There are several sayings among the loosely affiliated fraternity of salesmen, and few of them reflect kindly on the consumer, but that does not mean they are not accurate.]  When it comes to the implosion of the cryptocurrency market you can

This will always be my favorite Thanksgiving column.  It reminds me of my mother. I have a Thanksgiving morning ritual.   Up before dawn, I make my coffee (Minnesotan’s don’t do much before coffee), clean the turkey, sauté the giblets and start chopping up the onion and celery for the dressing.   While they are cooking, I carry my coffee cup to the door, and step out on the cold, silent porch.    I count the subdued lights filtered through the curtains of every kitchen window.   I know that each small beacon represents a woman starting the hours of work that is the Thanksgiving feast.   This is a day designed to remind each of us that no matter what budgeting, what careful use of leftovers, what creativity in bargain cuts and coupons it takes, our families will be fed. And on this day of Thanksgiving, there will be food in abundance. Everyone has a favorite holiday.   Mine has always— always —been Thanksgiving.   As a child it meant the best food, unremitting talk, play with my sis

  There is a photograph on the wall of my sister’s home that is both precious and haunting to me.   It is a restored, blown up and framed photo of my father on his way to the South Pacific during World War II.   It was taken by an Army photographer from a small tender craft as my Dad’s ship, the S.S. Monterey, left harbor.   In a happy accident, the picture was taken with a close up of Pfc. Frank G. Yatckoske front and center.   He is in the midst of a host of soldiers leaning over the rail, all smiling and mugging for the camera.   My father is leaning out from the rest, his arms braced on the rail of the ship, his smile—a straight, wide grin filled with mischief—is set in a young, lean, handsome face.   Every man on that ship seems filled with enthusiasm, bonhomie, even a sense of adventure. Those poor young men didn’t have a clue.               I don’t want to contemplate what happened to most of those men.   I know that “I” Company of the 63 rd Infantry, 6 th Division went

  Back in the early 70’s the “Born Again” movement was coming on strong and I was teaching in a Bible Belt school district.   Before class one day I suddenly found myself in earnest conversation with a fellow teacher who felt the need to “witness” to me about being born again.   She was a sweet lady and clearly following her heart, but I finally had to tell her, “Barbara, when you are born Minnesota, Norwegian Lutheran you don’t need to be born again.   Once is more than enough.”               I found myself thinking of that early religious training when I heard someone on the news quoting Dietrich Bonhoeffer.   I was surprised at this reference to a 20 th century Lutheran theologian.   I assumed most people had never heard of Bonhoeffer unless you were seminary trained or, like me back in 1961, had been in Pastor Nervig’s Confirmation classes.   He spent an entire hour telling us of Bonhoeffer, how he was executed by the Nazi’s because he defied them, and what it means to reject