Christmas Magic



I am pretty sure my brother, Matt, believed in Santa
as he tore open his gift and my parents looked on (circa ~ 1966)

I have never believed in Santa. <sigh>.  Okay, I said it.  This is a dark secret of my childhood that I don't like to talk about.  I really have no memory of ever believing.  My mom tells me that on my second Christmas I crawled out of my crib before anyone else was up and opened most of the presents under the tree.  My vague recollection of this event isn't about the magic of Santa, but only of the pretty wrapping paper.  Our next door neighbor boy, Michael Wischnewski, told me there was no Santa Claus.  I was three, he was thirteen, and my mom was furious.  Nope...no memories for me of lying in bed on Christmas Eve, waiting in exhilaration for Santa as visions of sugar plums danced in my head. <sigh again>.



Wagner Christmas 1969
(notice Matt's gun holster)

That being said, I do remember trying really hard to believe as I was growing up and saw my friends experiencing the magic of Santa Claus.  I tried everything to convince myself that this fanciful man existed.  I watched "Miracle of 34th Street" over and over, wanting to be little Susan Walker and defend the existence of Kris Kringle.  And although I did get close to believing I believed, I am quite sure that it was not the same as the real thing.  But as with other tragedies we experience in life, I survived, and above it all; I still have great memories of Christmas' past.  And unlike Michael Wischnewski, this secret was safe with me.  No one had their childhood dreams squandered by my running of the mouth.  I just sat back in silence knowing the truth.



Christmas was a big deal at my house growing up.  My mom played Christmas songs from her vinyl record collection while cooking, cleaning, and tending to me and my brothers.  Her favorites included Bing Crosby, Nat King Cole, and Andy Williams.  I still don't get why the Michael Bolten types have any right to carry tunes that were so eloquently crooned by their predecessors.  Any Christmas song recorded post the 1960's is nothing short of a shame in my book.  And with chronic reminders of a white Christmas and sleigh bells as background music, my brothers and I would spend countless hours leafing through the JC Penney catalog, expanding our Christmas list.  The Christmas edition would arrive in early fall and would be the center of many feuds regarding "whose turn" and "who is hiding the catalog...MOM!!!"  Those days are definitely a far cry from today's holiday on-line shopping adventures and Black Friday craziness.

My brothers, Matt and Mark, are just short of eleven months apart.  I arrived on the scene seventeen months after Mark.  In school we fell one year after each other.  As small children, we were as thick as thieves, but fought like cats and dogs.  I believe it is fair to say that I could hold my own, but had the benefit of being faster than Mark and quick to lock myself in the bathroom when trying to survive against Matt.  When we were around the 9 to11 year-old age span and our parents were convinced that we could fend for ourselves, we were allowed to stay home alone.  Mom and Dad would get dressed up and after church travel to neighboring LeMars to enjoy a quiet dinner together at Archie's Waeside.  Matt, Mark and I were a sneaky trio (ringleader = Matt...probably) and would get into all kinds of mischief on these nights of parental freedom.


Grandpa & Grandma Gib decorated the front of their house each year
with a life-size light up nativity


During the days leading up to Christmas on our "home alone" nights, our primary goal was to find our hidden Christmas gifts (obviously Michael Wischnewski had gotten a hold of my brothers too).  We tore up every cranny of the house until we found our treasured presents.  Although my mom was one step ahead of us as she immediately wrapped the presents before hiding them away, this tactic did not stop my brothers.  Mark had perfected the use of a butter knife in carefully releasing the scotch tape and opening the gift with no evidence of tampering post re-wrap.  We would play with our toys for hours until we knew it was time to cover our tracks.  One year the boys got matching John Deere mini motorized snowmobiles.  They were so thrilled after finding these treasures in early December that Mark made the fatal misstep of not counting his crime tools post-use of the butter knife technique.  On Christmas morning as Mark went into his game day theatrics of thrill and amazement of receiving such a fine gift; the butter knife fell out of his wrapped present before the snowmobile was revealed.  This confirmed my mom's suspicions which started with Matt asking the night before if he could take his new Detroit Lions football helmet to Grandma Doc's on Christmas Eve.  Since Matt had yet to open this gift and now Mark's gift produced a butter knife that was definitely not in the equation as she wrapped the present, her CSI skills of the 70's led her to believe foul play.  Gifts were locked in the cedar chest in years following and our late night pre-Christmas romps were over.

Our family tradition included Christmas Eve on the farm at Grandpa and Grandma Doc's and then Christmas Day at Grandma and Grandpa Gib's after opening our own gifts at home.  These were the days when you would receive as many homemade gifts as store bought ones.  It was common to sew, knit, bake, and draw homemade Christmas treasures.  My Grandma Gib sewed beautiful quilts for me that still are in my proud possession.  Grandma Doc always had grand ideas, but had a tendency to wait until the last minute until she executed on her plan.  On my third Christmas she made me my doll, Paper.  Paper (made out of cloth, but given the name from a 3 year-old imagination) came with yellow yarn hair, embroidered eyes, snap calico overalls, and hand sewn leather shoes.  In true Grandma nature, we could hear her in the den sewing the final stitches onto my treasured dolly as we all waited for dinner to be served and presents to be opened.  The next year she made me my dog, Sadie (an original name given by me after their farm dog).  I still have both of these favorite gifts in my possession; with a few patches added by Grandma over the years to preserve my stuffed friends.

Mom let us display our favorite stuffed animals for this pix.  Sadie sits in front of me.

Michael Wischnewski was the son of Bruno and Elfriede, immigrants from Germany and owners of our local jewelry store, Bruno's Jewelry.  Each year my brothers and I would patronize Bruno's as well as the corner dime store in selecting Christmas gifts for each other and pooling our money for our parents.  We would take turns going into the jewelry store to choose items deemed special and unique as the other two of our trio would wait their turn outside, promising not watch through the shop window.  Gifts included items such as piggy banks, thimbles, engraved spoons, and whatever trinkets Elfriede could find for us within our budget.  Bruno would watch from behind the glass display cases, not cracking a smile.  Gifts for mom included charms and dad, a coffee cup.  They were always wrapped by Elfriede in beautiful paper which I am sure added to the allure of wanting to buy our Christmas purchases there rather than the dime store.

One Saturday night in December before Christmas, we were greeted by Grandpa Gib as we walked home from church in the dark.  "I have a surprise for you," he told my brothers and me.  "Jump in the car."  After glancing at Dad for approval, we bustled into the back seat of his sedan.  Our pleas on hearing his surprise were given no more response then the smile that shown on his face.  He pulled into the dark alley next to the town co-op.  Grandpa worked at the co-op, so parking there did not come as a surprise, but the adventure that followed did.  Through a back door to the grain elevator, we followed our grandpa who led us through the dark passageways, flashlight in hand.  As we stepped on to the elevator shaft, Grandpa told us to hold on as we were lifted to heights we had never been.  My brothers and I kept looking at each other trying to figure out where this adventure was taking us until Matt solved the mystery.  "The star!  Grandpa is taking us to the star!!"  You see, atop the grain elevator shines the biggest, brightest star each Christmas season.  As children, we would gaze at this star in wonder as though it was the star of Bethlehem.  It shone high in the sky with a brilliancy befitting of Baby Jesus.

After stepping off the creaky elevator, Grandpa led us up a series of steps.  It felt incrediably dangerous at the time, but I am sure this was the analysis of a nine year old brain as my grandpa would not have put us in harm's way.  As we reached the top and climbed out into the fresh air, we saw the most brilliant sight...the star shining big and bright just inches from us.  Once we caught our breath and turned to see our little town from a height that soared high above the church steeple, I looked at my brothers and saw in their eyes a look of amazement and wonder.  Not a word was spoken as we gazed around us and took in the magic of our adventure.  I looked at my grandpa and saw him watching us with what appeared to be pure and uninhibited joy.  We did not find Santa Claus on top of the elevator that December night, but we did find the true meaning of Christmas in the shining star and in sharing a moment in time together.  In my lifetime I have experienced a magic of Christmas greater than any red suit or shiny nosed reindeer...the magic is in the blessing of the Nativity and in the love of a family.

Brad Lane...gone, but not forgotten

Brad died on December 1, 2007.  Although it has been four years, many details from the days following his death feel like yesterday.  This is especially true each year as we reflect on the anniversary of his passing.  Somehow that fateful time becomes a raw memory imbedded in the mind with a void that grows bigger in the heart as this day passes.  I see it in the eyes of his family and in their words of encouragement to each other as they cope to get through and rally as a family.  That is the Lane way…cope, love, persevere together.  As this anniversary is now behind us, the memories burn bright again.  And we all know that memories come in many shapes and sizes.  For the Lane’s, memories are carried in the good; that of a lovable brother, uncle, son and in the bad; the painful memories of losing Brad.

What began as a very ordinary Saturday in Nebraska, one that most of us have experienced a hundred times over, turned into a day that changed our lives forever.  A rain hit the ground that early morning and turned into a mild ice storm.  With resolve under the cloudy skies and slippery roads, I ventured out to follow my Saturday gym routine.  My family stayed back at home in different stages of sleep and sleepiness with the beginnings of our seemingly Saturday normalcy.  But this day quickly turned into all but normal.  In between workout reps, I picked up my phone and noticed several missed calls from home.   “Probably the boys wanting me to pick up donuts on my way home,” I thought.  Scott answered my call back with a statement that was so surreal at the time that I couldn’t even comprehend who he was referring to.  “Brad is dead”.  After a very confusing conversation that followed, I was aware that the “Brad” Scott was referring to was his younger brother.  Brad Lane had died that morning; just four days shy of his fortieth birthday.

I actually knew Brad before I knew Scott as I was introduced to most of the Lane family in 1986 while a pregnant Robbie’s loyal sidekick and trusted friend.  I remember my first introduction to this crew was a framed family picture that Robbie proudly had on display in her dorm room.  This treasure had the Lane kids sitting stacked one after another up a playground slide with heads peaking out either side.  The parents sat proudly at the top of their brood.  Robbie would recite their names to me and point out their individual differences and similarities.  I was intrigued by these smiling toe heads from the get go and before I had even met them.  The Lane clan was a cross between the “Brady Bunch” and “Eight is Enough” (but with nine kids instead of eight).  And Brad was the fun loving brother.  He was always the one to get the first laugh and a charmer with his boyish grin.  He had a sense of genuineness to him that made you instantly feel at ease.  I personally experienced this unconditional acceptance as he immediately received me as “one of them”.  I felt like a Lane girl from day one.  For Brad, being Lane and being Otis (Brad’s family nickname) meant acceptance and putting others before himself.  Brad never knew a stranger.

Brad and I with Jason and Jennifer...visiting my Aunt Joan & friends :)

We buried Brad on a Wednesday.  It was a cold day with overcast skies.  As we were still trying to make sense out of the unthinkable, there was a general feeling among family similar to that of a dull ache.  We didn’t know the answers and couldn’t even begin to put our arms around the reality of this loss.  But the family pulled together as we cared for the many grandchildren, made funeral arrangements, and made many trips to the airport with arms open to mourning out-of-state family.  Just as this large crew came together for the multitude of celebrations over the years, they were now preparing to bury their son and brother as a unified family.

People came to the wake and the funeral in masses.  Devotion and love toward the Lane’s was evidenced by the number of people who had come to pay their respects to a family that had always continuously given of themselves.  As Cookie and Russ unselfishly shared their love of life with those they encountered, these same people were now overwhelmingly supporting them.  All who know the Lane’s know that they are a family who would give you the shirt off their back.  And they would do this knowing there was no spare shirt in their drawer to replace it.  I have had the benefit of being a part of this family for over half of my life and being “raised” Lane during my young adult years.   Through this blessing, I have learned many great lessons of the heart and the value of being a part of a family that continually gives.

 There is a saying that people don’t always remember exact words or actions, but they always remember how they felt.  This best describes Brad’s funeral.  I don’t remember the exact readings nor do I remember who I sat beside, but I do remember holding on to each other as we sobbed with tears that never stopped flowing.  I remember feeling a huge sense of sadness and loss, but also a sense of complete family unity.  I remember all of us watching closely over grandchildren and reaching out to hold them as we saw them struggling during the service.  I remember watching my sons cry not only for a lost uncle they adored, but for their broken father and bereaved grandparents.  There was a hole that was left in the heart of a family that can never be replaced.

Fr. Don left a mark on this mourning family with the most amazing sermon from the heart; a true gift to the Lane’s.  As a long-time family friend, Fr. Don Shane watched the Lane children grow up.  He celebrated mass with the Lane Family filling an entire row at church.  He spent time in their home, baptized their grandchildren, and shared many laughs with this family full of an abundance of family humor.  He spoke from the heart with no focus on the “whys” of Brad’s death.   Although I may not remember the exact words, I can tell you that what he said moved me and brought comfort to a family who knew the words he spoke to be true.  “Many families are wealthy.  Most would think this to be a monetary assessment.  I am here to tell you that the Lane’s are a family of wealth.  Their wealth is in kindness and love.  They have richness in a deep and unconditional love for each other and all who are privileged to be part of their circle.  Brad was a part of this love and knew this love.  This family grieving in front of me is the wealthiest family I know.”

The Lane Clan...sometime in the 80's

Brad was buried on his fortieth birthday.  We had finished the funeral luncheon and had invited family to gather at our house.  No one was really ready to part and the Lane way is to be together and share time together…pictures, memories, conversation, and always a lot of great food.  So that is what we did.  We packed up cakes and food that had been dropped off by many friends and traveled to West Omaha as we opened our home to anyone who wanted to join us.

As we sat in unity at our house, strange events were unfolding in Omaha.  There was a random mass shooting by a lone gunman at the Omaha Von Maur department store.  There were many dead and wounded with many more questions as to the whys and hows.  We were glued to the television set at my home trying to piece together yet another tragedy in our community after an already emotion-filled day.  The following day when the details on the timeline of shooter entry and killings were depicted in the paper, I was quickly aware of a blessing bestowed on me.

The weekend before Brad died I had purchase a little black Christmas dress at Von Maur.  The day before Brad died I noticed the length of the hanging dress in my closet, tags intact, and deemed it too long for my taste.  I had placed the dress in the back of my vehicle making a mental note that I would return it the next week on my way to an out of town client meeting.  You see, as the forever planner, I had mapped my route to my future client meeting and knew a stop by Von Maur in route would both be multi-tasking at its best and an avoidance of the weekend mall crowds.

The day after the funeral and shootings, I noticed the forgotten bag in the back of my car.  The timeline of my aborted plan quickly surged through me as I compared it to the actual series events that transpired over the previous 24 hours.  My client meeting was canceled as it was on the same day as Brad’s funeral.  Based on my scheduled meeting time, if it wasn’t for Brad’s funeral, I would have been at the customer service counter of Von Maur at the exact time that several people were killed and critically wounded by the young gunman.   Although I haven’t shared this Godwink story with many people, I have always felt in my heart that Brad somehow saved my life on that fateful day.  And although this is a far-fetched thought, it is something that I will always hold in my heart to be true.  Brad was a Lane, tried and true, and that’s what Lane’s do; they give you the shirt off of their back and put their family first.

The reality is that the void of Brad’s loss will never be filled and the hole in the heart of the Lane Family never replaced.  Regardless of his journey; a child, brother, son, uncle was taken from this family.  He was a kind heart that we all so desperately wish would have had one more chance at life.  But that is not a decision of man, but of our God.  Our blessing stays with us in our memories and in the smiling loving faces of the many nieces and nephews who each carry on a piece of Uncle Brad in their hearts.  I can picture him now with his boyish grin looking down at all of us from heaven.   The innocent reality in Brad was that he never judged others and gave of himself with all that he could offer.  And we all know that the heart and the love of a family is the most valuable asset of any individual.  It is this wealth that makes us whole.  Although Brad’s life was short and his accomplishments few by the naked eye, his sharing of kindness and love was a big contribution to a great family legacy.  And the Lane family legacy will continue to make a difference in this world one person at a time.

Daily Attitude e-mail 11 21 11



Favorite pix of mine...
I snapped this out of my plane window
while flying to Denver some time ago.
Some of the best downtime...on a plane.


Each workday Jake Davis of Mavidea (IT company in Illinois) sends out a daily attitude e-mail to a distribution list that includes many in the IT business as well as other friends and business owners.  I am thankful to receive these daily reminders of positive attitude and devotion.  Jake had asked for volunteer writers to cover for him while he was out enjoying the holiday this week.  I volunteered to write today's e-mail and below is my contribution that I have choosen to repost on my blog.  So here are some thoughts as I enjoy some reflection time in Colorado...


Thanks to Jake for allowing me to participate in the daily attitude e-mail.  Jake had suggested following a theme of “what we are thankful for” with it being Thanksgiving week.  I think this is a great suggestion…which I will follow, but with a bit of editorial commentary on my part. 

I typically shy away from writing editorial type content or engaging in those types of discussions.  I save those thoughts for conversations over wine or runs (and only with selected friends).  But today I feel compelled to write on a topic that is on everyone's mind with the news circulating around us.  Social media, blogs and Internet outlets are buzzing on who looked the other way at Penn State, Herman Cain’s alleged indiscretions, and the many other daily news feeds on unethical and immoral behavior.  Even the PollyAnna's like me who avoid talk radio and controversial conversation are scratching their heads wondering how good people (by all appearances…I won’t be the judge on those I haven’t met) make such poor choices.

Rather than belaboring the fact patterns as already reported in the news outlets; I will simply ask the question of why we as humans have such a hard time in just doing the right thing.  What happened to the simple rules we learned as children...tell the truth, own your mistakes, and always do what is right?  But instead…what a tangled web we weave.  Yes, pride and ego will bring the greatest of men (and women) to their knees.

A man I completely respect for his passion for doing all that is right and his dedication to leading others in faith is Fr. Kizito Okhuoya, a priest at my church.  Kizito was raised in a poor community in Africa.  His childhood experience included worries on running water and a school with a roof with no knowledge of growing up the American way with reality TV, video games, and social privilege.  The innocence in his faith principles and avoidance of a commercialized existence present a raw purity to a man with no false pretenses on differentiating between acceptable and unacceptable behavior.  In a recent sermon, Fr. Kizito talked about this specific issue.  He boiled it down to the principle that as humans we all know the difference between right and wrong.  It is that simple.  Take out all the noise and excuses and we can all apply this simple question to every choice we make in life:  Is it the right thing to do?  Life would be so much more fulfilling for all of us if we challenged ourselves to follow this principle each day and with each action.

And, yes, we are human so we do make mistakes and at times, bad decisions.  The key then is how we handle them, correct them, and learn from them.  It really is all about doing the right thing.  And then it is our own individual free will that guides how we handle our failings.  Coach P made a bad choice and then when given time to reflect and correct, he choose not to.  An already big problem turned into a colossally huge problem with people’s lives irreparably hurt and humans damaged. 

I always tell my sons that all lying is bad.  Little lies escalate into big problems.  Compromising our decision making on what seem small at the time can turn into BIG problems that not only cause embarrassment, but impact the lives of many people (drunk driving leading to injury, overlooking a wrongful act which then causes harm to others…the list goes on and on).  The significance of the choice at the time does not have a direct correlation to the size of the problem it can create.  In the case of Joe P, I am sure there was a point when he knew that he made a bad choice.  It takes a big man (or woman) to realize this human failing after the fact.  And it takes enormous character for that man or woman to correct their failing with all they may have at stake.  Think through your own life circumstances where you saw this play out big or small...a boss who recognizes a mess up that can cost a company a customer, but takes the responsibility and owns it with the client.  How about a politician who realizes they made a bad choice in the past and now simply says, I made a mistake?  How refreshing would this be rather than in-fighting, covering up with excuses, play of words, and the very typically response of avoidance?  Yes, ego and pride are our greatest distracters in following the principle of applying right from wrong.  When you put yourself first; differentiation between right and wrong no longer seems to matter.

So how does all of this apply to the daily attitude thought for today?  I am of the belief that we are all people with significance in this world.  Kim Kardashisomething means nothing, but the people who subscribe to this e-mail mean everything.  We are the real players in the game of life.  It starts with us…in our homes, at our work, in our communities.  We need to do the right things and challenge each other when human failings happen (and they will happen).  So today I will say that I am very thankful for the many people in my life who always do their best to do the right thing, for the right reasons, and hold me accountable to do the same.

Sister Mary & Father Jim

As they say, a picture is worth a thousand words.  Yep, this favorite pix of Mom and Dad elicits that kind of a response in me.  As I thought through my costume choice for Halloween this year, I was reminded of the last time I dressed for the occasion two years ago.  That was Halloween 2009.  I dressed as a nun and my mom and dad as my counterparts.  I was the brainchild of the idea and my mom the creator of the finished product.  I believe Dad would be considered an accomplice by default (and a good sport in humoring his wife and daughter).  So as I thought about our Halloween fun in Vegas two years, I felt a bit inspired to share it in a blog (but don't know if I can promise under a thousand words).

If you have not met my mom and dad, I apologize for this deprivation.  My parents are awesome. I don't think there is a simpler way to explain them.  And for those who have read my prior "Big Bird" blog, you are aware of my mother's creative talent as a seamstress.  Growing up, our Halloween costumes were handmade gems.  The last "Mom-made" costume of recollection was a red calico "Little House on the Prairie" dress accessorized with a floppy bonnet.  And I do believe this dress had a dual life.  The original recipient was my Aunt Kathy with this costume created by Mom for a part in a school play (Oklahoma?).  I marveled at this wonder and with a few tailored adjustments, I wore it proudly around Remsen for Halloween.  EVERY girl wanted to be Laura Ingalls in 1979.  And I can tell you with 100% certainty that I was the only prairie girl strolling the streets of Remsen that night.

Matt, Mark and Sandy Wagner (pix taken at Grandma Gib's).
Clown outfits and matching bags ~ courtesy of Mary Wagner. I have to note...could Mark be any cuter and doesn't Matt's mask illicit thoughts of him holding a machete?

By 2009 the many Halloween costumes designed by my talented mom had become a very distant memory.  I turned into the official costume designer to my own boys (now second guessing whether I shunned Mom by excluding her).  So when I pitched the idea of dressing up as clergy, Mom not only pulled through with flying colors; she was very excited about the entire concept.  And with our long lineage of priests and nuns on the Pick side of our family, the idea seemed a natural fit.

What made our costume choice even more fun was the fact that we would be celebrating together in Las Vegas.  With my brother's family living in Vegas and my parents in Northern Arizona, our frequent family gathering destination is Viva.  And I LOVE Halloween.  I really don't know where this originated.  I think a big part is my love for everything fall...my birthday, football, fall colors, cool nights, caramel apples...<pause and smile by Sandy> . My family knows this about me and I have been treated over the years with many wonderful Halloween gifts that decorate my decked out house.  So spending Halloween on a family trip was just frosting on the cake.

This Vegas trip was a bit more fun as Dad decided to treat his grandkids (and wife and daughter) to a stay on the strip.  He wanted the teen/tween grandkids to enjoy the flavor of Vegas together (kind of like getting a hotel room for the kids to hang, but with neon lights and slot machines).  And we spent Friday night doing just that; taking in the Vegas experience.  We ate at buffets, took pictures with Elvis, toured the M&M factory, walked the strip, and avoided the MANY people trying to hand out inappropriate female trading cards.

Although an active participant in our Vegas adventures, Mom was chomping at the bit for us to try on her handmade duds.  We did a quick fitting in between dinner and walking and she was pleased with the result.  No Nobbie's quality in this garb.  The material was the thick itchy wool/cotton blend with hooks and snaps in various hidden spots to complete the official look of Catholicism glory.  Mom had actually shopped at a missionary to pick up some of Dad's specialized costume pieces.  The result was short of spectacular.  And Mom knew it.

After a hangover of too many M&M's and Mountain Dews, the grandkids slept in and I found myself the casino workout room (note that Saturday morning in Vegas is a great time to have the workout room to yourself).  Mom couldn't wait any longer for the reveal.  She certainly couldn't wait for me to finish my workout and shower.  As I ran the treadmill and watched the Husker game on the communal TV, Father Jim and Sister Mary made their grand entrance.  I about fell off the treadmill seeing them in full character with sullen looks and hands together in prayer.  "God bless you, child" was Mom's greeting.  So after praising them for their impeccable delivery and characterizations, Mom and Dad took their show on the road.

After cruising the strip and walking through every casino they had time to hit, mom swore they never cracked a smile.  Numerous people asked if they were real; at which mom gave them a blessing and a slight nod of the head.  There were people who took up conversation with them, sharing stories their own friends or relatives who were "just like them".  Mom and Dad never broke from character.  They received many stares and comments, but pulled off their holy revival with Oscar winning accuracy.  When they came back to the workout room after their outing, they were giddy and smiling from ear to ear.  They reminded me a bit of a modern day Bonnie and Clyde.  You would have thought they just robbed a bank and got away with it.  But in true form of my parents, not a negative word came out of their mouths casting judgment on the casino dwellers of Sin City. When I reminded mom last week of their little Vegas missionary adventure, her comment was "That was fun.  We had to capitalize on the opportunity!" 

And our fun had only just begun with the parental casino crawl.  Halloween night entailed the kids all in costume; trick or treating in my brother's neighborhood.  All three of the Holy Order were also costumed for the occasion.  We proudly walked along side of our kids saying "say your prayers or no candy" to those who offered comment.  And there was a little added twist to our trick or treating as I had my attention focused on my smart phone.  You see, this was beginning of my Garrett chapter.  We had just met two weeks before and were texting back and forth like a couple of kids with a school age crush.  My nun habit and texted picture (below) gave a witty Garrett much ammunition for some playful banter.  There was also a time when I briefly snuck into a bedroom so we could talk on the phone <gasp>.

While my kids were preoccupied with their own antics, they didn't give my preoccupation another thought.  But I pulled no wool over my parent's eyes.  Sister Mary and Father Jim watched me like a hawk wondering what I was up to.  I can picture my mom looking like the flying nun racing around trying to find me while I had snuck into the bedroom on the phone.  A knock on the door was followed with "Sandy, are you coming out soon?"  The reality was that my parents had not experienced me as a single woman since I was a school girl and neither had I.  None of us really knew what to do.  After quizzical looks and questions on what was so interesting with my phone, they finally put the episode in their back pocket for close future observation.

The good news is that I finally let the cat out of the bag over Thanksgiving that year when I asked if we could swing by Garrett's house in Denver to drop off Husker tickets while Mom, Dad and I were on a road trip drive from Albuquerque to Omaha (say that three times fast!).  When I finally got up enough nerve to make this peculiar request a day before our departure, my dad simply said, "Sandy, we trust you and will do whatever makes you happy.  And you are in charge of the map...we are just along for the ride".  So that is exactly what we did.  Greeted by Garrett's Great Dane at the door, the four of us had a lovely Thanksgiving dinner prepared by Garrett.  And you know the rest of the story.  Thinking back, I wonder what went through my parent's minds when their newly minted single daughter ("Safe Sandy") asked them to stop at a man's house in Denver for dinner and overnight.  And a mysterious man, mind you, that I had met just weeks before.  It felt so right to me at the time, but had to have been an incredible leap of faith by my parents.  Father Jim and Sister Mary had now connected this man to my Halloween night phone escapades.  And it took little time for them to surmise that he was a blessing in our lives.    

I was told once that I have wicked intuition. My response is that I don't hold a candle to my mom.  During my most significant life changes, she knew the answers before I even accepted that my life was changing.  And my dad has always been a pillar of honesty and loving support; virtues fitting of the role of my mom’s accomplice.  My parents do make quite the team. I will close by saying it is a true blessing when intuition and acute perception lead only to human acceptance and away from superiority and judgment.  And to that I say, "Amen, Sister."

Oktoberfest Queen Contest 1984

Recently over a glass of wine, I was comparing notes with my friend, Cindy, on our teenage pageant experiences.  Cindy clearly beat me out with winning the honor of being crowned Pork Queen in Ohio.  Although my claiming first runner up in the Remsen Oktoberfest Queen competition felt very admirable at the time in 1984; the reality is that I was a mere runner up.  No queen for me.  Fortunately for my hometown of Remsen (coined the "Little Luxembourg of Iowa”) our crowned Oktoberfest Queen, Beth, did an awesome job which did not necessitate the need for me to take over her duties (admittedly the silent dream of every first runner up).

So after sharing some laughs as we revisited our parade float waves, Cindy and I moved on to the next conversation.  I hadn't thought about my Oktoberfest runner up honor in years and believed that this memory would once again be tucked away for a few more years.  Then ironically within a week of having this discussion with Cindy, I stumbled across an old scrapbook in the bowels of my storage area that contained my handwritten speech for the 1984 Oktoberfest Queen contest.  I'm quite sure I have not touched these notes since they were written the night before giving my speech.  The speech was written in my trademark chicken scratch and then tucked away in my cherished teenage scrapbook.  Also included in my scrapbook were the contest rules and requirements of the queen and her court and all of the papers documenting the glory of this honor.

This "time capsule" data threw me back to 1984 with the raw feelings of my small town innocence now emerging from my forty-four year old self.  I was quickly reminded of those days of my youthful past and love for the only life that I knew and the community of which I felt a great deal of love.  These were the days of knowing the name and the stories of all my neighbors (which basically included the entire town).  My small town was my backyard playground with a community feeling similar a warm blanket.  Ah, yes, those were the days of ingenuousness with no worries.

Let me give you some background on my hometown roots.  I grew up Remsen, Iowa.  When I moved out of town in 1985 to attend college, the population was 1,500 and our town motto was “Not a town, but a way of life”.  Sometime post 1986 (the year my parents moved to Arizona), the motto was changed to “Neat, but hard to beat”.  I do have to say that I don’t know how a town motto that had been in place for a hundred years is changed.  I would like to believe there was some type of vote by the city council with great debate rather than simply an individual decision to update the town welcome sign with a new motto.  I guess this is one of life’s mysteries of which I may never know the answer.  Regardless, “Not a town, but a way of life” was the central theme to the Oktoberfest Queen contest of 1984.  As one of the contestants, I was asked to write a speech around this topic and present it to a panel of judges.

You will note in my speech (in its full and unedited form below :)), my heartfelt desire to have Remsen as a part of my future (post-age 16).  One could now deduce this to be wishful thinking and a distant memory.  But the reality is that it was my golden Remsen upbringing with my family, friends, neighbors, and endless farmland that has formed me as a person and will always be a part of me.  I am very proud of my Remsen roots.  This upbringing has taught me great life lessons in work ethic, the value of a sense of community, human dignity, Christian values; and for that, I will always be grateful.  And being named first runner-up…not such a bad gig.  I am honored to have my name included as part of my town’s heritage and history.

Below is my “almost winning” speech in all of its glory.  And there is a timeliness to this blog post as Remsen is celebrating its 38^th annual Oktoberfest and their Luxembourg heritage tomorrow.  Know that as you read this blog, there is a high likelihood that the 2011 Queen and her court are proudly performing their crowned duties of greeting the crowd and polka dancing to “In Heaven There is No Beer”.  <sigh>  And although I am not advocating a “Freaky Friday” experience of my reliving life as a 16 year old; I do have to admit that spending a day dancing the polka in my Oktoberfest dress without a care in the world while bursting with the pride of my hometown is a welcomed daydream.

Oktoberfest Queen Contest Speech

My name is Sandy Wagner.  I was born in Remsen and have lived here my whole life.  So when we were told to write a speech on what we like about Remsen, there was no way I could even begin to name all the reasons.  I love Remsen.  This is my home.  I can walk around town and tell you something about practically every house and street and town.  Every tree, every road holds a memory for me.  Remsen is my life.  It holds all of my memories of the past and hopefully it will be part of my future too.


So when I ask myself what I like about Remsen many things come to mind like clean air, the facilities and businesses, safety, and the friendly atmosphere.  But I can’t really use these as reasons because I’ve never known anything different.  I don’t know what it would be like to walk down a street in my hometown without being greeted and knowing everyone.  I don’t know what it would be like to have to worry about locking our doors all of the time or not being able to run at night because of fear or gangs or rapes.  I have never had to worry about things like this and hopefully never will.  These are definitely good reasons for liking Remsen, but these are just external reasons to me.  The real reason why I love my town is for what Remsen really is; the people.  Every reason I can possibly think of for liking Remsen is because of one thing – our special community of people.


 I could babble on for hours on the different things to do in Remsen, but to me all these things aren’t as important as the one thing that made them possible and keeps them going.  That is our community.  It is the people that keep our town safe and clean.  It is the people that start businesses and run our facilities.  It is the people of Remsen you care about the education of our children.  They pay the taxes to support our public school.  And it is the members of our Catholic church who have such high religious beliefs who keep our private school going.  This gives the people a choice between religious and public education.  This shows how high our community’s religious and educational priorities are.  I feel special and privileged to be part of this community of Remsen.  I truly feel that it is the people who make Remsen so special.

It is through our Oktoberfest that we show the rest of the world what Remsen is like.  And it is our people who are so proud of our town and of our Luxembourg heritage who work all year long planning and preparing for the best Oktoberfest ever.  It is the one thing that our entire community can work together on so we proud Remsenites can let everyone else know how special we are!  Being a Luxembourger and proud of my heritage, I would do anything possible to help promote an Oktoberfest that would show how proud our community is.  Because I’m part of this community, I want to represent all the people of Remsen.  These are the same people that greet me on the streets.  These are the same people who give donations with a smile to our schools and churches.  These are the same people who have been a big part of my first 16 years of my life.  Remsen is definitely a town and a way of life, but most importantly Remsen is the people who live here.  It is the people sitting in front of me now who care enough to keep our town running strong and proud as I am to call Remsen home.

Killer or Crooked Smile?

In retrospect I believe my imperfect smile should have been recognized as a potentially chronic problem with my Kindergarten school picture.  I was a mere four when the above photo was taken in the early 70's.  At that time children started school based on the date of their birth as opposed to the preference of their parents.  With my September 13th birthday, I had always held the coveted position of being one of the first birthdays of the school year (right after Mary Galles and a day before Tom Jaminet) along with being the youngest in my class.  But with my young age, I was also a big thumb sucker which led to my crooked buck teeth and future need for orthodontics.

My mom tells the story of me bringing home this picture and throwing it on the kitchen table visibly upset; knowing this was not a "keeper".  My brothers had a hay day laughing and poking fun at what I was potentially doing to cause the exasperated expression on my face.  My mom ignored these comments and simply didn't order my school pictures that year.  The only evidence of this photo is in the class compilation which included all student pictures; regardless of if they were ordered.  My brothers still bring up my kindergarten picture on the laughable occasions where they mimic my "killer smile".

My very buck teeth led to much needed braces in my pre-teen years.  My brother, Mark, also a thumb sucker with matching buck teeth, was my ortho companion.  We had all of our appointments together to save time as my mom made the nine mile trek to neighboring LeMars, Iowa.  After putting two of my own children through braces, I am now keenly aware that the approach to teeth straightening has changed quite a bit from the 1970's.  I grew up in an era of "one size fits all" orthodontics.  My brother and I (and all of my friends with braces) had matching plans and timelines; including basic teeth extraction and the wearing of head gear.  I don't remember my orthodontist taking any extra time to assess my mouth and develop a plan specific to me.  Mark and I were basically a duo deal plunked into our orthodontist's standard protocol program.

This was my "buck-tooth" stage.
I was trying to hide my overbite which resulted in my very crooked smile

Once Mark and I hit the golden date in the ortho timeline for the removal of our braces, I was confident that my crooked teeth were forever a distant memory.  I am quite sure this was the last time I thought there was an issue with my smile.  That all changed last week when I visited an orthodontist to see what I could do about a bottom tooth that had become progressively crooked with age.  Being the recipient of full braces once and bottom braces a second time, I believed this to be minor adjustment.  In fact I waited until I had my first two children out of braces before deciding to look into less invasive, removable braces for my easy fix. The added irony was that I choose to visit an ortho different from the one I kids used simply because I didn't think I needed the special "full service" care they had received.  I was certain that I would buy the new trendy removable braces (ones that my kid's traditional ortho didn't offer)...a quick fix for an orthodontics pro like me who had been down this road before and only needed a minor adjustment.  But I quickly found out that my "been there, done that" philosophy was flawed.

Let me preface the rest of the story by stating that I very much like and respect the work of both orthodontists that I speak of in this story:  both my kid's ortho and the new ortho providing me my recent consultation.  But I have to be completely honest in saying that I felt like I was cheating on ortho #1 when I went to my consult with ortho #2.  Although plagued with guilt, I had convinced myself that this was the best alternative for all parties involved (why bother ortho #1 with such a minor case?).  I do need to come clean on the fact that I had given a great deal of thought as to how I would remove my braces from secret ortho #2 when bringing my third son to ortho #1 to start his braces next year.  And since I have already shed my soul, I also have to admit that part of the motivation in wanting removable braces was to hide my cheating ways.  So as you can imagine, my consult with secret ortho #2 did not start out well as I sat in the waiting room hiding behind a magazine with a guilty conscience.

After being escorted through a very fancy office by many very nice people with a variety of jobs in taking pictures and x-rays of my choppers, I was brought to a big office for my official consult.  Yet another very nice lady introduced herself as my orthodontia liaison.  She reviewed my file and then shot up the images of my mouth taken just minutes previously on to the most gi-normous plasma screen affixed on an adjacent wall.  Seeing the inside of your mouth and your teeth up close and personal is not an exercise I would recommend to 90% of the population.  Not a pretty sight and not for the faint of heart.  I would further say that there is no need to look at any body part that closely and on that big of a screen for any reason.  My teeth were no exception and certainly not what I thought I saw in the mirror every day.

My first clue that my consult was going awry was when the nice lady excused herself because "I want to have a few words with the doctor in private before he comes in"  <nice lady flashes me her killer smile>.  Hmmmm...something wasn't feeling right to me.  Shortly thereafter the handsome ortho #2 walks in and tells me flat out, "I am sorry, but you are a complex case."  I lay in the chair speechless staring at my nasty mouth on the screen as he proceeds to tell me how the wrong teeth were pulled for my pre-orthodontia as a child.  He didn't know who was to blame; my small town dentist or orthodontist (all kind of sounded like the chicken and the egg dilemma).  Pulling non-identical teeth caused me to have a very imperfect bite that could not be corrected without surgical tooth implants (major surgery with one week off of work and risk of complications) which would then put me back to where my teeth were before my childhood braces and we would start all over again.  Yes, that is the only way to correct my very crooked smile.  Oh, and there is more...the surgery is considered cosmetic and not covered by insurance and after reminding me again of my very complex case; my braces were quoted on the high end of the price range.  So the estimated bill to correct my apparently freaky Frankenstein-isk smile (and how did I ever miss this when I looked in the mirror the last 30 years???)...$32,000!

So after I peeled myself off the floor from shock and asked a lot of questions, I will tell you in all honesty I believe ortho #2 was correct.  The only way to achieve a perfect smile for me would be this route.  He went through great detail in pointing out how my teeth alignment was completely off and how my teeth had overcompensated for the wrong pulled teeth over all of these years.  The ultimate result which was now apparent to me was my one crooked tooth dead center in my bottom tooth line.  The nice lady kept assuring me that I would be so happy with the final product...perfect teeth and a perfect smile.  A bit shell shocked, I thanked both of them, shook their hands and wobbled out the door.

After calling Garrett and explaining how it was time to take this horse to the glue factory, the first rational thought to follow was that I could spend $32,000 for the perfect smile only to be kicked in the face by a horse the next day.  What good is a perfect smile with a messed up face?  So why tempt fate?  Then my really rational side (more honestly...Garrett's thoughtful input) reminded me that I currently experience no pain from my messed up mouth, suffer no physical side effects, and (per ortho #2) have no real risk of future complications from choosing not to correct.  So in the spirit of calling a spade a spade, this would purely be cosmetic.  It really would be no different than a nose job or liposuction.  Suddenly I "got" how cosmetic surgery could be addictive.  Here I was just living my life with no idea that I have a messed up smile.  Possibly I have avoided looking too closely in the mirror.  People do smile back at me when I smile at them which I always thought was a good sign.  But within an hour of acknowledging that I did in fact have a huge imperfection, I was somewhat convinced that I needed to be fixed.  Fortunately it then took less than an hour for me to come to my senses.  Can you imagine what good could be done with $32,000? Think of the multitude of people and charities I could help...the list of real human needs is endless.  Putting it in that perspective, how could I in good conscience spend that amount of money for pure vanity?  

I have had several more takeaways after having had some time to reflect on my consult.  First note to self: Putting Rolls Royce rims on a Chevy does not make it a Rolls Royce (doesn't mean you can't be a high-end Chevy though!).  Second note to self:  No more opening up the hood unless smoke is billowing from the engine.  Third note to self:  I could have a flat stomach and a great butt at no cost if I just took the time to consistently do sit ups and squats.  So why in the world would I pay for perfect when I haven't even figured out how to capitalize on what I can have for free?  I expect you can gather that I have decided against the implant surgery and braces.  I kind of like my crooked tooth now.  And I'm going to tally my $32,000 savings as I put it toward worthy causes.  The donation money I have earmarked to date causes me only to smile bigger and embrace my now favorite imperfection.  I am thinking that if I just tilt my head a little bit when I smile, I should be good. Oh, and by the way, I did take Grant in to ortho #1 for his initial consult yesterday.  Since I didn't actually cheat my loyal ortho, the guilt is gone and all is right in the world again.  So life really is back to normal for me with my crooked tooth and my crooked smile.  And my apologies as I politely excuse myself and end this blog.  I need to go do some sit ups.  

Official Husker Fan

It is Game Day in Nebraska.  Does it get much better than that?  A spectacular day shared with 85,000 of my closest friends as we watch our Huskers inaugurated into Big Ten Football.  Did I just say "our"?  Yes, this girl from Iowa sitting amongst a sea of red has long claimed this team as her own.  As I sit in Memorial Stadium taking in the awesome aura of the day and reflecting on my journey from Hawkeye black and gold to Husker red, I realize that this is the season that I am "official".  I am now an official Husker fan; tried and true.  Let me substantiate my math on this honor.  My move date over the Iowa border to the land of Nebraska was May of 1989.  I would have been 21.67 years old at that time.  Fast forward to September of 2011 and I have now been in the state of Nebraska for 22.36 years.  This officially pushes me over the golden time line of being a Husker for more of my lifetime than a Hawkeye.  Yep, I am genuine and official.  No band wagoner here.  I have earned my stripes.

My first taste of Nebraska football was the 1986 spring game.  This was my unofficial initiation into Memorial Stadium.  Along with a crusade of Westmar College classmates, I was in Omaha this late April weekend for Russ and Robbie's wedding.  With many of the Westmar wedding guests being Nebraska natives, they hopped on the opportunity for a multi-faceted weekend which included NU football.  So I joined them as I had curiosity on what the excitement was all about and certainly didn't want to miss out.  I very much remember walking into Memorial Stadium wearing a Guess mini-skirt and a light yellow cardigan sweater.  I am not quite sure why I always remember wardrobe details like this, but I do.  I could recite from memory what I wore to almost any event or what someone was wearing the first time I met them.  Although I view this as a talent, I have yet to uncover the usefulness of this ability.  But what I do know is that on this particular day I was overdressed and definitely wearing the wrong color.  I picked up on the sea of red around me and immediately wanted to shed my yellow sweater.  Perhaps an Iowa loyalty was lingering with this chosen attire.

So one would ask, why did I flip?  Changing teams is not a necessity by virtue of changing your home address.  This is obvious by the waving flags throughout my neighborhood supporting the Hawkeyes, Cyclones, and The Fighting Irish.  The answer is that I didn't give it much thought, but made the declaration quickly while under pressure.  This event happened in the fall of 1986.  I was invited to spend the weekend with Scott's family in Nebraska.  As part of this weekend excursion, we attended a NU football party at Aunt Rita and Uncle Roger's house in Omaha.  The house was brimming with the aromas of chili, Rotel cheese dip, salsa, and the faint background smell of canned beer. As the game was already in progress, the family members (many of which I had not yet met) were glued to the TV and roaring over the latest great play made by the Husker contingent.  As I quietly walked in the room; expecting to be a wallflower and waiting for the optimal time for introductions, Aunt Rita eyes me from across the room and exclaims, "Where is your red?".  Although I wasn't dressed in anything offensive (no opposing team mascot or brass contrasting color), I was certainly not wearing red which was obviously the uniform of this party.  Silence followed as it was no secret that this new girlfriend was an Iowan.  But without another thought or word, I declared to the crowd, "Of course I will come dressed in red for the next game.  Go Huskers!".  Yep, I flipped pretty quickly now didn't I?  In my defense, I knew there was a high likelihood that this family would be mine some day and my living in Nebraska was also a probable event.  So when you go to Rome, you do what the Romans do, right?  And in my personal experience, this has proven to be a very good choice.

Zach and neighbor buddy, David (1995)

Along with marrying into a very Husker family, I have raised three very Husker boys.  Red does flow deeply through their veins as they have been Nebraska born and raised.  Nebraska football has been a pivotal part of our fall days over the last eighteen years and have given me many warm memories.  Through the baby and toddler years, we would spend our game days with the boys dressed head to toe in their Husker attire as we went about our busy Saturdays.  Grocery stores, gas stations, and pretty much every public place in Omaha would be blaring the game on overhead radios with employees dressed in the school colors and buzzing about the current score and game status.  You see, there is no need to be physically in Lincoln to feel a part of Nebraska Game Day.  We would many times go to the homes of other families and watch the games together while accommodating naps and crawling children dressed in NU onsies and sweat suits.  I was introduced to my current vice, drive-through specialty coffee, in the mid-nineties with two sleeping boys strapped in car seats while the Nebraska game played on my radio.  I would drive around town listening to the game while sipping my favorite latte.  This was my window of peace and quiet as a very colicky Baby Ben Lane was soothed to sleep by the Husker announcers.


All ready to cheer on the Huskers



That's an "N" spray painted on Grant's head

As the boys grew in size and age, we graduated from enjoying the games via TV and radio to driving to Lincoln.  Ahhh...Lincoln, Nebraska on Game Day...an experience like no other.  Although on occasion Zach would be treated to watching the game in Memorial Stadium, our Lincoln Game Day routine during the toddler+ years included an early drive down to the game to enjoy all the pregame festivities.  We would tailgate, visit the University Bookstore, and then 2 hours prior to kick off...Husker Nation!  For anyone who hasn't experienced Husker Nation, let me explain.  In the track field adjacent to Memorial Stadium, UNL puts on family fun with all of the amenities prior to the game.  This includes bouncy houses, obstacle courses, face painting, vendor food and drink stands; while the pre-game and game is televised live on the big screen.  The boys would enjoy this carnival setting with a football theme and then I would find a space to plop down and watch the game on the big screen.  A typical day would include a sleeping Ben with a warm cheek painted with "NU" and drooling mouth passed out on my leg while Zach and I played catch with a Nerf football.  All this with the game on the big screen and the roar of the live crowd in the foreground.  True bliss.  By halftime we were packing up, beating the crowds and traffic with me driving back to Omaha while listening to the rest of the game on the radio.  Boring by some standards, picture perfect day by mine. 

  

Zach enjoying his Texas experience at the Alamo Bowl (December 2005)

The many bowls game won and lost each have had a different memory and piece of significance to my family.  I remember like yesterday watching the Fiesta Bowl in the basement of our first house while playing with a 2 year old Zach in his toy room.  The two of us were dressed to the Husker nines cheering on our favorite team while knowing Zach's dad and uncle were in the Arizona stands doing the same.  We celebrated the win in true toddler style which was directly followed by me holding a sleeping and worn out Zach while watching the trophy presentation on TV.  At that point in my life, my basement with my 2 year old was the "best seat in the house"; much better than the vintage view from the Arizona stands.  Fast forward to the 2005 Alamo Bowl game in San Antonio, Texas.  At age twelve, Zach was proclaimed old enough to accompany his parents and the Russ Lane family on this football road trip.  And indeed it was a memorable time.  We enjoyed a win and some great Texas hospitality. Zach experienced his first adult-only trip (technically teenage and older, but biggest takeaway...no little brothers) and I came home with a Texan treasure; a great parting gift to a Husker bowl win...a sweet pair of red cowboy boots.  I wear them proudly, weather permitting, as a part of my Husker Game Day uniform :)
 

Red boots still kickin' for Husker home games :)

As we are now officially graduated from sippy cups and car seats, we have moved up to enjoying the game inside of Memorial Stadium.  This happened sometime around the season of the Alamo Bowl.  Our view is from the East which is conveniently located closest to my company tailgate.  So rather than planning nap time and packing diaper bags for an afternoon in Lincoln, I am now strategizing with my Lutz co-workers days prior to Game Day on important details like numbers of coolers and tail gate food choice; dependent on other important details outside of our control like weather and game time.  Our most important decision at our scheduled TGP (tailgate planning meeting) is who gets the coveted Lot 12 parking passes.  The awarded recipient is contingent on possession of the proper vehicle and accessibility to transport the many coolers, grills, big screen TV/satellite dish, and other necessary preparatory items to make our pre-game festivities a success.  Definitely a production, but one we all enjoy thoroughly and anticipate greatly.


Is this not hysterical?  Grant reenacting "the play" on the statue that adorns the entrance to the East Stadium.  One of my favorites.  Note the red shoes!!



Grant and Bud ready to cheer on the Corn!



My boys look forward to Game Day and the the pre-games festivities as much as their adult counterparts.  Their pre-teen years have been filled with running with the other "tailgate regular" kids and playing football in the indoor practice field, The Koch Pavilion.  Several years ago before the Texas game, Ben broke his collar bone playing a "recreational" game of football at the Koch.  And BTW...he went back to Memorial Stadium to watch the game after a trip to the Lincoln Hospital emergency room.  Now that Zach is graduated and a college student, he has his own fraternity tailgate.  But along with the other college kids who frequented the Lutz tailgate growing up, they all somehow make it back to ours on Game Day (just for "old times sake", I am sure :) ).  There is a camaraderie like no other among our fans, and yes, we are very good to our non-Husker guests.  I have experienced this firsthand as hostess to visiting Colorado and USC fans.  They were graciously welcomed; not only by our tailgate groupies, but throughout the lot and into the game as well.  Every entrance at Memorial Stadium displays the phrase: "Through these gates pass the Greatest Fans in College Football."  Yep, true story!

Lutz comrades enjoying tailgate hospitality ~ Kristen, Sandy, Susie

So now I am a proud Husker mom of a UNL student.  I guess that makes me as much official as the timeline that I have laid out, doesn't it?  But since I can get a bit bucky about earning accomplishments on my own merit; going down Husker memory lane seemed a valid endeavor.  And, ah...yes, the many memories brought a BIG smile to my face.  So no matter where my travels take me...Colorado, Iowa, Arizona...you can rest assured that I will remain a loyal Husker fan.  There really is no place like Nebraska; especially on Game Day.  And now it's time for me to wrap up this blog.  It is 10:25 a.m. with a 2:30 kick against Washington.  As the boys are reminding me by the knocks on my door and shouts of "Mom, we need to go!"; a tailgate awaits us...