The Blaisdell Blog

   Did you know that Santa Claus does not come down the chimney?  Nope.  Not required.  Doesn’t happen.  Never a factor in my childhood.              Perhaps a little explanation is in order.  Both of my grandmothers were immigrants from Norway, and like most mothers, they controlled the culture in the family.  That means I was raised Lutheran, love to eat a carb-heavy potato dumpling called “krub,” and know, without a doubt, that Santa Claus does not come down the chimney.  Santa comes through the front door, and he isn’t even the most important person there.  The key figure is the Julenisse, a Christmas elf.  All Nisse are short and wear red caps.  They are not attractive creatures but have magical powers and a wicked sense of humor.  Every farm has its own Nisse, who takes special care over the animals.  If you do not treat your livestock well the Nisse will not treat you well.  Remember that when you make your Christmas list.  On Christmas Eve the Julenisse knocks

  As it turns out, it isn’t Nuclear Winter or Global Warming that we need to worry about.   It isn’t alligators in the sewer, monsters under the bed or even the dreaded twi-night doubleheader that should rob us of sleep.   Mother Nature appears to be warming up something brand new in her bullpen of unanticipated worldwide changes.   The world’s magnetic field is weakening at rapidly accelerating rates.   The Earth is preparing to reverse its magnetic poles. I was put in mind of this after reading an article in the Washington Post which began:   Last year, scientist announced they had discovered cyclone-like auroras near the North Pole. Over 600 miles in diameter with multiple arms that rotate counterclockwise, they contain a calm center, or eye, and “rain” electrons into the upper atmosphere. The team dubbed them “space hurricanes” for their 3D funnel shape.   These hurricanes are not related to the usual magnetic auroras that produce the Northern lights.   They are not related

  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