Rog's Rod & Nimrod

It was late summer 1960. I boarded the Chicago & Northwestern “Dakota 400” in downtown Chicago and rode the rails to what was then SDSC in Brookings, SD. I was about to experience a massive dose of culture shock. My Chicagoan mindset was totally foreign to South Dakota. My neighborhood boiled with racial conflict. I trusted only family and friends, and survival was my #1 priority. Now there was homesickness.

The college didn’t help. On Day One, we freshmen were herded into the administration building auditorium and told to look at the person on either side of us. They would be gone by the end of the year. Not what I’d call hospitality. Curt, one of my best friends, recalled that day. He went home. Too bad as he would have been a heck of an engineer. My English Composition instructor asked about my slummy accent. If it hadn’t been for the football players and coaches, I would have gone home.

I pondered how two places only 600 miles apart could be so different. The only trees were planted in rows called tree claims. South Dakotans poured tomato juice into their beer. Bags were called sacks, French fries were shoe strings, and a car’s gas pedal was called a foot feed. Girls could drive tractors and make me a shirt on their sewing machines. One ate dinner at noon. Pheasants were everywhere, and unless land was posted, one could hunt without permission. Jackrabbits bought a dollar apiece in a world where a new car could be had for less than $2000. I was slowly adjusting to paradise.

By year’s end the Chicago & Northwestern had dropped their service, and I bought a 1948 Plymouth for $50. Better yet, I picked up a few Chicago bound passengers who paid for the gas. All went smoothly on the way home, and my Plymouth proved to be a good purchase.

In October 1961, a carload of us were pheasant hunting southwest of Brookings where my Plymouth became hopelessly mired in a mud hole. Someone suggested walking to the farmhouse a half mile east for help. I wondered why any farmer would help a bunch of college kids on a Sunday afternoon. As there didn’t appear to be any options, Phil and I walked to the farmhouse, knocked on the door, and explained our dilemma.

“Give me a few minutes to get the tractor and a log chain, and I’ll see you guys back at your car.” I became tense and nervous. What would he charge me? Five dollars? Ten dollars? I didn’t have that much money on me. The John Deere pulled the Plymouth from that hole with ease.

“You boys stop back at the farm. We have some cake and chicken left over from dinner.” By the time I finished my third piece of chicken I was a wreck. Surely my bill would be at least twenty dollars.

“How much do I owe you?” I asked with apprehension.

“You don’t owe me a cent. We enjoyed your company. Hey, try that slough a mile west on the north side of the road. You’ll get the rest of your birds.”

It was about 6:00 p.m. on Christmas Eve 1961. Chicago would have a white Christmas as there was 18 inches of fresh snow on the ground. A car was stuck right in front of our house, and I could hear the squealing tires spin hopelessly. I pulled on my overshoes, put on my coat and hat, and headed for the door.

“Where are you going?” asked my brother.

“I’m going to help that car out there,” I answered. No doubt all of them questioned my sanity. They didn’t realize I had become a South Dakotan.

May this spirit of giving of oneself, a trait common to those of us who call ourselves South Dakotans, be the norm across our divided nation tonight on this New Year’s Eve.

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As a result of efforts by chairman Rob Moore and me, the 2020 Mitchell Gun Show rides again! This will be a plus for many Mitchell merchants, but I need to raise $1500 in order to meet increased show expenses. One Mitchell business has already pledged support. I will be coming around to businesses with my hand out, so please have a smile and your checkbooks ready. Thank you.

See you next week.