Rise and shine otters, Spiess in the Morning broadcasting and podcasting from the spectacular studios next to the swamp in the land where the loons outnumber the voters.
It's July 2nd, and today’s got a little lint on its shirt, a whole lotta sequins on its soul, and the quiet hum of a nation stitching itself together—one factory, one footnote, one dream at a time.
Let’s start with the spirit of the day—it’s Made in the USA Day. Not just a label on the bottom of your coffee mug or stamped onto your faded blue jeans. It’s an idea. A handshake between labor and ingenuity. Whether it’s handcrafted guitars in Tennessee, paddleboards in Colorado, or locally made honey right here in Minnesota, there’s something enduring about things made close to home. In a world of outsourcing and fast fashion, today asks us to pause and consider: What’s worth building where we stand?
And while you're holding that thought, pour a little something sweet and continental into your glass—because it’s also National Anisette Day. That black licorice liqueur beloved by grandmothers and European uncles the world over. Sip it slowly, and let the past unfurl. It tastes like old jazz clubs, like family arguments at holiday dinners, like something you’d drink while reading Camus under a ceiling fan in Marseille. Love it or loathe it—anisette has character. And maybe that’s what we need more of these days: flavors that don’t apologize.
Now if your hips are starting to twitch, that’s because today is National Disco Day. That’s right—dust off those platform shoes, break out the glitter ball, and cue up some Bee Gees, because this day honors a genre that was more than music—it was movement. It was defiance in polyester. It was community in 4/4 time. And even if disco "died" in a Chicago stadium riot in '79, let’s be honest—it just slipped into something more comfortable and kept dancing in the background of every wedding DJ set ever since.
And if you’re feeling a little too fuzzy, today’s your lucky lint-rolling day—it’s National Lint Awareness Day. That’s right. Lint. The quiet little fuzz of existence. Clinging to your favorite black sweater. Hiding in the dryer filter. A reminder that everything leaves behind a trace—our clothes, our memories, our mistakes. Life’s lint may be small, but ignore it too long, and you’ll find yourself coughing through the consequences.
Now, let’s give a birthday shout-out to today’s cosmic cast:
Ashley Michelle Tisdale, born July 2, 1985. From High School Musical to voicing animated characters, she’s carved out a career on the back of bubblegum beats and quietly sharp instincts. A performer who’s more than just a pop-culture punchline—she’s a pro who’s danced through reinvention.
Margot Robbie, born in 1990. Queen of versatility. Whether she’s skating on the edge in I, Tonya or lighting up the screen as Barbie or Harley Quinn, she brings intensity wrapped in charm. Australia gave us the didgeridoo and kangaroos. Then Olivia Newton John and now Margot.
And then there’s Larry David—co-creator of Seinfeld, master of awkward silence, and spiritual leader of curmudgeons everywhere. Born today in 1947, Larry’s made a career out of the things most people avoid: tension, pettiness, neuroses. In his world, the parking space matters. And in some strange, sour way… that’s liberating.
Bret “The Hitman” Hart, Canadian wrestling royalty. The excellence of execution. Technical, tactical, and pink-sunglassed. Bret reminded us that even in the most choreographed chaos, there's room for discipline, dignity, and drama.
Richard Petty, the “King” of NASCAR, born July 2, 1937. Cowboy hat, sunglasses, and 200 wins. He didn’t just drive fast—he made it look like a Sunday cruise with destiny. One of the last American archetypes: part race car driver, part myth.
Thurgood Marshall, born this day in 1908. The man who turned the law into a tool of liberation. First Black Supreme Court Justice. Lead attorney in Brown v. Board of Education. He didn’t shout—he litigated. He didn’t rage—he reasoned. And in doing so, helped shift the moral axis of this country just a little closer to justice.
Hans Bethe, physicist, Nobel laureate, born in 1906. Helped us understand the stars, helped us split atoms, and spent the rest of his life trying to make sure we didn’t destroy ourselves with what we’d learned. One of those minds so vast, you can’t help but feel smaller—and a little awed—just reading about him.
So here we are, July 2. A day of contradictions that somehow makes sense. Glitter and gravity. Lint and legal legends. Cookies, curmudgeons, and countrymen.
Maybe today you drink something that tastes like your great-aunt’s memory. Maybe you buy something that was built close to home. Maybe you roll off the couch, put on some ABBA, and remember how to become a dancing queen without shame.
Because in the end, the disco ball spins for us all.
This is Spiess in the Morning, reminding myself and anyone listening that history is full of sequins and sawdust. And both can shine, if you catch them in the right light.
Spiess in the Morning on the OtterTalk media network, transmitting thoughts and musings straight to your soul on this brisk Minnesota sunrise. The spruce tips are glowing, the lynx are running, and somewhere in the cosmos, Mercury is in Cancer, which they say softens the tongue but sharpens the heart. Sounds like a recipe for accidental honesty to me.
So, I had this conversation the other day with a friend—real salt of the earth type, good heart, big ideas—but when it came time to give a toast at her sister’s wedding, she locked up tighter than a bank vault during a blackout. She couldn’t do it. Just couldn’t.
Fear of speaking.
Now, I gotta admit—that one’s always been a head-scratcher for me. I mean, for some folks, standing in front of a crowd with a mic in your hand is like dangling over a pit of piranas with your feet in shoes of meat. But me? I’ve always seen speaking as the river that carries my soul’s canoe.
Back in college at good ol’ North Dakota State University, I was double-dipping in Speech Comm and Mass Comm. I'd practically fight to be the first one up during class presentations—I'd roll my shoulders, breathe deep, and let the words pour out like spring melt over the prairie. My professors probably thought I was either fearless or just full of it—and they were probably right on both counts.
But I’m not here to brag. I’m here to wonder… why? Why is the fear of speaking such a primal panic for so many good people?
I cracked open The Good Book the other day—Exodus, to be exact. And wouldn’t you know it, Moses—the man, the myth, the Red Sea part-timer—he had the same fear. God tells Moses to go speak to Pharaoh, and Moses says, “Pardon your servant, Lord, but I am slow of speech and tongue.” That’s a biblical way of saying, “Hey, Big Guy, I’ve got stage fright.” And this is Moses, y’all. The dude with commandments and a staff that turns into a snake. So maybe it's not a flaw, maybe it's a feature of the human condition.
And in the realm of myth, we find the Greek goddess Cassandra—gifted with prophecy, cursed never to be believed. Now, that’s another side of the fear coin, isn’t it? Not the fear of speaking itself—but the fear of speaking and not being heard. Or worse—being heard and dismissed. Maybe it's not the speech that paralyzes us—it’s the silence that follows.
In Native American tradition, especially among the Lakota and Hopi, speech is sacred. Words are not just sounds—they’re spirit-breath. There's a story from the Blackfoot people, where words were once only sung, not spoken. Language was melody, intention. The elders teach: speak only when your words improve the silence. Heavy stuff. Maybe that pressure—the idea that every utterance must mean something—adds a psychic weight to the act of speaking.
Pop culture doesn’t make it easier either. We live in a world of highlight reels—TED Talks and viral speeches where everyone is polished and punchy. You bomb a speech today, and it might haunt you on YouTube for a decade. Makes the stakes feel pretty high for someone just trying to make it through a retirement toast without turning into a puddle.
Circling back here in my Libra mind, as I process understanding someone's fear of speaking, if you’ve got Mercury in retrograde—or even worse, in Pisces—you might find yourself stumbling on the very syllables that carry your deepest truths. Some charts say those people have to fight harder to be heard… to believe they deserve to be heard.
And maybe that’s where it all lands for me.
Fear of speaking… is really fear of being seen.
Standing up there, all eyes on you—it’s the soul’s version of being naked in Times Square. The fear isn’t that you’ll mess up your words. The fear is that you’ll reveal your truth, and the world will turn away. That your voice—your deepest self—will be measured, weighed, and found wanting.
But let me tell you something my beautiful otters, your voice is not a performance. It’s a gift. A flicker of stardust vibrating in the atmosphere. And like the owl’s screech echoing through the river valley—it matters.
So, to all the tongue-tied poets, the trembling best men, the mothers who want to read their own lullabies but can’t quite find the breath—I say this:
Your voice is worth hearing.
Even if it shakes. Even if it breaks. Even if it takes all you’ve got just to say, “Hi, my name is…”
You don’t have to be Moses or a TED Talker. You just have to be you.
And in that honesty—there’s poetry.
Keep your camp fires warm, your hearts open, and remember—your voice is the universe, humming its way into the world.
Spiess in the Morning here, OtterTalk(DOT)media on your handheld computer that works as a modern day Walkman, broadcasting and podcasting straight out of the sultry swamp of the North Star State. Sun just peeked over the ridgeline like a shy debutante, and the world smells like spruce sap and second chances.
Quick community calendar reminder - Northern Lights are out dancing again and tonight may be their final performance in Minnesota for the week. The Loon Lake Boat Parade on July 4th kicks off around noon, line up in the bay at 11am. Any questions, contact Katie Jensen at Site 18. Kate’s Korner Antiques & Collectables is now open in Elizabeth. Located across the street from the liquor store on Hwy 59, Kate’s Korner is a must stop and see. If you see the flags flapping in the wind, she’s open and ready to serve your nostalgic needs.
Now, I wanna talk today about bird watching—not the binocular-toting, khaki-vest-wearing kind, though there's nothing wrong with that. No, I’m talking spiritual bird watching. The kind that happens when you're not looking for something, and the universe taps you on the shoulder anyway.
The other morning I was sipping a cup of strong black coffee on my porch—black as crow feathers, smooth as a Cohen verse—when I saw a flash of electric blue zip past my head and land on a birch branch. A blue jay. Bold, beautiful, unapologetic. That bird didn’t so much perch as it claimed that branch like it had a mortgage on it.
The blue jay. A corvid cousin—sharp as a tack, loud as a brass band, and full of attitude. But this little blue rascal isn’t just an avian punk rocker. It’s got spiritual resonance, cultural gravitas. The kind of bird that shows up with a message... if you’re listening.
To the Cherokee, blue jays are messengers. Not always subtle, but that’s kind of the point. They shake up the silence, rattle the still waters. Some tribes believed the jay’s arrival meant that gossip or trickery was afoot—beware the double-tongue, the sharp smile. Other times, the jay’s blue was a divine flag waving in the wind, a sign from the Creator that insight was on its way, wrapped in feathers and racket.
Biblically? The blue jay isn’t name-checked like the eagle or the sparrow, but the symbolism’s there if you tilt your head just right. Jays are fearless. Protective. They’ll stand guard over their nests like little warriors, and there’s something mighty Old Testament about that kind of devotion. Proverbs says, “The righteous are as bold as a lion,” but I’d wager the blue jay would give the lion a run for its money in a parking lot showdown.
Here’s a fun one for your bird brain: Blue jays aren’t really blue. Their feathers contain no blue pigment. The color you see? That’s structural coloration—light bouncing off the microscopic structure of their feathers. It’s illusion, baby. Optics. Nature’s sleight of hand. Like the way love feels solid until it isn’t. Like how time seems linear until you wake up one morning and it’s been twenty years since your last high school dance.
Culturally, the blue jay’s been a symbol of mimicry. They’re master impersonators. I’ve heard them imitate hawks to scare away predators. Kind of like when we humans raise our voices, puff our chests, pretend we’re not scared of the silence echoing inside us. That jay's not just a bird. It’s a mirror with wings.
And speaking of mirrors—blue jays mate for life. Yeah. Through storms, migrations, lean winters and fat springs, they stick together. Not a bad role model in this age of ghosted texts and fast food feelings. They build their nests together, raise their kids with a mix of raucous energy and quiet commitment. There's something noble in that. Something real.
So, what’s it mean when a blue jay crosses your path? Could be a warning, could be a challenge. Could be the cosmos telling you to speak up, claim your voice, hold your ground. Or maybe it’s just a bird being a bird—loud, proud, and alive.
But maybe, just maybe, it’s all of the above. The universe is funny like that. Layers upon layers, all hiding in plain sight, wrapped up in a song that starts before you were born and keeps playing long after you’re gone.
So, keep your eyes open, otters. Watch the skies. And if a flash of blue and white zips across your field of vision today, don’t just see a bird. See a symbol. A story. A sermon in feathers.
Spiess in the Morning, reminding myself and anyone listening to be the branch… or be the bird. Either way… fly true.
The Minnesota morning sunlight’s peeking through the honeyberries, coffee’s perking, and yours truly, Spiess in the Morning, is here to beam some sonic sustenance into your soul.
You know, I was flipping through the dusty pages of a songbook the other day—one of those old collections from the ‘40s, the kind your grandmother probably kept in a cedar chest next to ration coupons and a stack of faded postcards from Reno—and I got to thinking about two songs that hold a pretty sacred place in the American psyche: “The Star-Spangled Banner” and “America the Beautiful.”
Now, both are sung with hand over heart. Both are played before games, gatherings, and even, sometimes, in the dead hush of a national tragedy. But only one was knighted with the official title of National Anthem—and that’s The Star-Spangled Banner.
Let’s start with that one. Picture it—September 1814, Fort McHenry, Baltimore Harbor. Francis Scott Key, a 35-year-old lawyer, is holed up on a British ship after negotiating the release of a friend. While he's there, the Brits decide to put on a little fireworks show—except with cannonballs—trying to obliterate Fort McHenry. And as the smoke clears in the dawn’s early light, what does our boy Frankie see?
“That our flag was still there.”
Now think about that for a second. That flag—battered, scorched, probably full of holes—is still waving. It’s a survival story. It’s about resilience, tenacity, raw patriotism under fire. No metaphors. No purple mountain majesties. Just rockets’ red glare and bombs bursting in air. It's a war song. A tough-love lullaby for a young nation still trying to prove it belongs on the world stage.
Musically? Whew. Let’s just say it wasn’t exactly written with your average karaoke singer in mind. It’s a British drinking tune, To Anacreon in Heaven, of all things—ironic, considering it’s the national anthem of a country that tossed British tea into Boston Harbor. But that melody soars and dives like a fighter jet at an airshow, which makes it perfect for operatic tenors and pop divas alike.
Fast forward to 1931—Congress finally gives it the nod as the official national anthem. Took ‘em a while. There were other contenders, after all.
And that brings us to our sentimental second act—“America the Beautiful.”
Written originally as a poem in 1893 by Katharine Lee Bates, a Wellesley professor who’d just climbed up Pike’s Peak in Colorado. She’s looking out at those amber waves of grain and those spacious skies and thinks, “Man, this is something divine.” She pens the first draft in her hotel room. No bombs, no battlegrounds—just awe. Just reverence. It’s like the song looks around at the beauty of this land and says, “Thank you.”
And then there’s the music—composed by Samuel A. Ward. Smooth. Flowing. You can almost feel it roll like the hills it’s describing. It’s not a call to arms; it’s a call to gratitude.
So why did The Star-Spangled Banner beat out America the Beautiful for the top patriotic crown?
Well, I think it comes down to identity.
The Star-Spangled Banner is about surviving trauma—it's the story of a young, scrappy country staring down the barrel of empire and saying, "Not today." It's dramatic. Cinematic. There's blood in the lyrics. We Americans love a good struggle narrative. We see ourselves in that tattered flag, clinging to the pole in the wind.
America the Beautiful, on the other hand, is more like a prayer than a national anthem. It’s aspirational. “God shed His grace on thee.” It’s a dream of what we want to be. “Crown thy good with brotherhood.” There’s a yearning in it, almost a confession. A gentle reminder that greatness isn’t guaranteed—it has to be earned, every generation.
So maybe that’s why it’s the second-string starter, the ballad before the fireworks. Played on July 4th morning before the beer gets warm and the grill’s fired up. It humbles us. Reminds us this country’s beauty isn’t just in its geography—it’s in its people, and their capacity to grow.
So what does it say about us that we chose the battle hymn over the blessing?
Well, maybe it says we see ourselves as survivors first. Warriors before poets. Maybe we love The Star-Spangled Banner because it tells us we made it. And we love America the Beautiful because it reminds us to deserve it.
Maybe we need both.
One to remind us where we came from.
And one to remind us where we ought to go.
So this Fourth of July, whether you’re belting it out in the bleachers or just humming it into your coffee cup, take a moment to really listen to the words. Let them sit with you. Both songs come from a place of deep love—love for a complicated, messy, magnificent country still trying to become the best version of itself.
Stay wild otters, stay grateful, and keep your eyes on those spacious skies.
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Erhard’s 4th of July Celebration. It is a community celebration including live music, activities for kids and adults, and food and refreshments which will take place from 12 PM to 5 PM, with a parade earlier that morning at 11 AM.
Loon Lake Boat Parade on July 4th! Line up in the bay at 11am. Any questions, contact Katie Jensen (Site 18)
Wall Lake 4th of July Boat Parade Friday, July 4th, 2025 12:00 PM Boat parade will line up and start on the south side of Wall Lake. In case of rain, the parade will be delayed 1 hour.
Patio Party at the Vergas Liquor Store on Friday, July 4th from 2-4pm! Local musician damian will be performing on the brand new patio!
Kate’s Korner Antiques & Collectables is NOW OPEN in Elizabeth! Located across the street from the liquor store on Hwy 59, Kate’s Korner is a must stop and see. If you see the flags flapping in the wind, she’s open and ready to serve your nostalgic needs.
Paul’s Farm Fresh Eggs - $3/dozen - call or text 218-205-7779 (The Greater Elizabeth Area)
Abbie’s Farm Fresh Eggs - $9 for 30 eggs - washed or unwashed - call or text 320-349-0942 (The Greater Morris Area)
IBC Totes for sale - Endless uses for these totes from firewood storage to rainwater catcher to stacking two for an outdoor shower. Pick up encouraged, delivery available. Food grade are $100 each and non-food grade are $65 each. Call 218-639-1116
The Shoreline Bowling Alley in Battle Lake has open bowling All Summer Long. Call 218-864-5265 for more info or stop by 505 N Lake Ave, Battle Lake, MN.
The Bookmobile has books, movies & magazines to check out, but the Bookmobile and member libraries also offer a wide variety of electronic resources including Ebooks, downloadable audiobooks, streaming movies, TV and music, and a wide variety of educational databases and distance learning resources.
The Bookmobile stops across from the Parkers Prairie Post Office every other Wednesday throughout the year. You can find the Bookmobile there from 3 pm to 4 pm.
The Bookmobile stops in Elizabeth, only this stop isn’t at the community center or the public park, rather it’s a private house. Next stop is July 3 in Elizabeth and it’s a block north of the C-Store on the gravel road, or 206 N Pelican Street, for you GPS folk.
Check out more Bookmobile towns by clicking here
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Please tune in tomorrow for more local lakes area tunes, totally tubular tales, and some small-town smiles.
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