We all play a part, or I suppose, more accurately, we have the opportunity to play a part. Some take that opportunity, some don’t. This became especially apparent to me last week while Dawn and I were rambling around Ireland for a week. Those that shared a bit of their time, shared a bit of themselves, took it upon themselves to play their part…they made our trip.

Thinking back to the various characters that played their part, that made our trip, makes my heart swell and my eyes well a bit. It also makes me realize that maybe I could do a better job of playing my part here in Rapid City. A better job of openly welcoming and being curious about the lives of those that, of all the places in the world, have chosen to visit the place I get to call home. Once tourist season rolls around, we’ll see if I have that part in me?

It had been 17-years since Dawn and I first visited Ireland, and although I have been fortunate enough to make several visits since then, this was Dawn’s first time back. Of all the places in the world, why Ireland again? If you really want to experience the music you have to go where it began, you have to go where the tunes are played and the songs are sung. Played and sang by those who have never known life without that music in it. That’s one reason, and for me, reason enough.

There’s always a risk going back to a place you have been before. A risk that whatever it was you found there is gone, or that it’s still there, but you are different. Maybe not better, maybe not worse…just different. So it goes. On this trip, when I found myself wishing things to be this way or that, I tried to just be. Not back, not forward, but right where I was, because I will never get to be right there, right then again.

When invited to play a part, play it. It will make all the difference for you and for everyone else sharing that particular scene, that particular time, that particular place. Because, “Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.” Nevermore is much more likely than evermore. While Dawn and I stood atop Mt. Brandon, chilled to the bone, engulfed by a thick shroud of mist and pummeled by a relentless Atlantic gale, a raven reminded me, “Nevermore”, and I couldn’t help but smile and sing.

That’s what you do in Ireland. You smile and you sing.

As we departed Dublin airport, as we climbed and banked towards the west, I watched as the many shades of green passed below. Johnny Cash found inspiration for his song Forty Shades of Green from this same vantage point.

“Again I want to see and do. The things we’ve done and seen. Where the breeze is sweet as Shalimar. And there’s forty shades of green.”

Ireland is a beautiful site from above, but you got to get your feet wet and lean into the wind to really see it, to hear it, and to feel it.

Happy St. Patrick’s Day my friends.

I recently read “The Worst Hard Time: The Untold Story of Those Who Survived the Great American Dust Bowl” by Timothy Egan. A good read. The book came out in 2006, but I must have missed it while Dawn and I were earlobe deep in what I now recognize as our “best hard time”.

That time when we were parents to little kids. That time when the gaps between the ends seemed as if they would never meet. That time when we thought that who we were was who we would always be. That time when we hadn’t yet realized the difference between a job and a vocation. The best hard times.

I’ve heard it said that nostalgia and hope are thieves of the present, but sometimes I find myself wishing I was still a dad to little kids and willingly sacrifice a bit of the present for a bit of the past. I’m well aware that this little wave of nostalgia I allow to roll over me is going to leave me a little bit sad, but I wade in and let it wash over me anyway.

Perhaps if I allow it to dampen my spirits from time to time it won’t build to an unmanageable level and drown me. Perhaps. I was walking through Walmart the other day, picking up the sort of odds and ends one my age picks up at Walmart…stool softener…antacids…plantar fasciitis insoles…seven-day pill organizer…readers…bag of jerky…dental picks, when I unwittingly waded into the toy section and weathered a rogue wave of nostalgia.

The toy section, the space where many moons ago, our children would disappear into while my wife and I shopped for the sort of odds and ends young families require…Pop Tarts…string cheese…Fruity Pebbles…toilet paper…lots and lots of toilet paper. So it goes. The toy section, a place of enduring hope where you see little kids “just wanting to look” but hoping that if they muster up a sufficiently longing and pitiful look at the object of their desire, that the adult holding the purse strings will take note of their sincere need of the latest plastic prized possession, grant their approval, and pony up the cash.

I know this because I felt that look overcome me as a kid in the Ben Franklin Store in Stanley, North Dakota, and from time to time as a husband when I “just want to look” at guitars, bikes, and 1970 Jeep CJ7s. Same look…different toys.

Lillian Sandberg and Gordy McEvers were right. In 2006, Lillian in her 90s and Gordy in in his 80s, were the oldest woman and man in Lignite, so I interviewed them for a book I helped put together for the 2007 Lignite Centennial celebration. When I asked them, “If you could go back in time, what time would you go back to?” They both said that they would go back to when their kids were young and all still living at home.

That time when money was a little short, but needs were mostly met and wants were often left wanting. That time when, as my mom says, “The days are long, but the years are short.”

What time would you go back to?

So, if you ever happen upon me milling about the toy section of Walmart in a misty-eyed stupor of nostalgia…I’ll be fine…nothing a bit of stool softener won’t remedy.

The best hard times. May you have just enough.