Rise and Shine Otters, Spiess in the Morning broadcasting and podcasting from the spectacular studios next to the swamp in the heart of the North Star State.
It’s June 30th—the last stop on the month-long ride of June. And as the Earth makes another elegant pirouette through the void, this particular date reminds us just how small we are... and how sweet life can be when you let it melt slowly on your tongue.
Today is Asteroid Day and Meteor Day, which is the universe’s way of saying, “Heads up.” Literally. On this day in 1908, a space rock the size of a small apartment building exploded over the Tunguska River in Siberia. Leveled 800 square miles of forest like Mother Nature decided to press the reset button. No warning. Just boom. It's a cosmic reminder that the universe isn't just out there—it’s in motion. And occasionally, it knocks.
The difference between an asteroid and a meteor, by the way? Just a matter of perspective. If it’s floating through space, it’s an asteroid. If it’s burning through our atmosphere, it’s a meteor. And if it actually lands, well… then it’s a meteorite, and suddenly everyone wants to name it and sell it on eBay. Amazing how what we call a thing depends entirely on where we are standing.
Now, to balance all that cosmic calamity, the universe also gave us Ice Cream Soda Day. Yeah. A little carbonated joy in a tall glass. Two scoops, some bubbles, a straw—and maybe a cherry on top if the diner gal is feeling generous. It’s summer in liquid form. Cold, sweet, a little fizzy. Kind of like nostalgia doing the jitterbug in your mouth.
But this isn’t just a day for meteor trails and milkshakes—it’s also a day to raise a glass to some unforgettable humans born on this fine date.
David Alan Grier, born June 30, 1956. A man who can drop a Shakespearean monologue and a slapstick punchline with equal ease. From In Living Color to Broadway, he’s always had that rare comedic ability to tell the truth and still get a laugh. A true craftsman in a business full of clowns.
Molly Parker, the Canadian gem with a glacier’s stillness and a volcano’s power underneath. Whether she’s brooding in Deadwood or navigating the strange stars of Lost in Space, there’s a gravity to her. A quiet beauty that demands attention. And she certainly got mine.
And then there’s Mike Tyson, born in Brooklyn on this day in 1966. A man who punched his way into history, controversy, redemption—and maybe even enlightenment. He’s the riddle of rage and peace wrapped in muscle and tattoos. Iron Mike showed us the beauty and the brutality of raw talent… and what happens when it’s left to battle itself. Whether he’s in the ring or on a podcast, the guy keeps surprising us.
June 30 is one of those days where the universe feels close. Maybe it’s the asteroids. Maybe it’s the way ice cream melts just a little faster under a solstice sun. Or maybe it’s just that familiar hush at the end of a month, when we realize we’ve made it through another stretch of time with our hearts mostly intact.
So wherever you are today, take a moment. Look up at the sky and remember: that’s not just blue. That’s history, physics, mystery… and the occasional visitor traveling at 40,000 miles an hour.
Then maybe head over to Dairyland, ask Pat to make you an old-fashioned ice cream soda, and toast to all the people who keep orbiting in and out of your life.
This is Spiess in the Morning, OtterTalk media network, reminding myself and anyone listening that sometimes life hits hard like a meteor. Other times, it just wants to sit across from you in a booth, share a float, and talk about the stars.
The tadpole class of 2025 has graduated and their after party is still hopping down here at the swamp my beautiful otters, the coffee’s got an infusion of campfire smoke, and the birch trees outside the studio are dancing that slow summer waltz that only they know the steps to.
Here we are, June 30. The very edge of the month, toes curled over the diving board, staring down into the great unknown of July. It's that liminal moment, where the calendar hangs in suspension—like breath before a kiss, or silence before thunder.
Now, the word 'June'—she’s got history, that one. Comes from the Roman goddess Juno—protector of women, guardian of marriage. She’s not just some background deity. She’s regal, stately, the kind of goddess who walks barefoot through marble halls and doesn’t flinch when the thunder rolls. Juno’s month is about blooming, about betrothals, about the fullness of spring ripening into the promise of summer. You see it in the peonies exploding in the garden like soft pink fireworks, or in the way the sky glows a little longer each evening, like it’s reluctant to let the day go.
But July… now July, she’s a different creature. Named for Julius Caesar, the man who rewrote the calendar and the empire in one fell swoop. July doesn’t whisper like June. She strides in like a general with his sandals tied tight. She brings the heat, the sweat, the crackling sound of fireworks and arguments on front porches. Not to mention the John Susa marches.
July’s about independence—personal, national, spiritual. A month of declarations. July doesn't ask if you're ready. She just shows up, sunburned and barefoot, and dares you to keep up.
So we stand here, between the feminine grace of Juno and the iron ambition of Julius. Between the breath and the blaze. Between the soft hum of June's bees and the pop and sizzle of July’s sparklers. One hand on the windowsill of spring, the other reaching toward the furnace of midsummer.
Myths and legends aren’t always carved in stone or etched in ancient texts. Sometimes they’re calendar pages, sometimes they’re seasons. June teaches us to notice. July dares us to act.
So whatever it is you’ve been hesitating on—whether it’s writing that song, making that phone call, planting those beans—June’s given you the space to think. July’s about to give you the fire to do.
So let’s not mourn June as she steps offstage. Let’s bow. Let’s thank her for the beauty, the introspection, the lengthening of light. And then let’s rise and greet July—not as conquerors, but as pilgrims on the sun-drenched road, with bare feet and open hearts.
This is Spiess in the Morning, reminding myself and anyone else listening that life—like the calendar—moves forward, even when we’re not looking. Here’s to what’s coming next.
“You’re listening to the OtterTalk media network — where the muskrats roam free and the coffee's strong enough to reboot your karma. This is your old pal Spiess in the Morning, your cosmic chiropractor for the day, here to crack open a few misalignments of the mind and soul.
You know, I was sipping a lukewarm espresso style of Java this morning, watching the sun peep over the swamp like it was shy to begin the day — and it got me thinking about something we don’t talk about enough: the invisible wounds.
Mental health.
Now, if someone walks into the Elizabeth General Store with a cast on their leg, hobbling on crutches, nobody bats an eye. We all open doors, help carry groceries, and tell ‘em to take it easy — “Don’t rush back to work too fast, bud!” they say.
Cancer diagnosis? People bring casseroles. They give space. They understand the long haul.
But if you say you’re dealing with depression? Or you’re having panic attacks? Or grief’s got you pinned down like a bad wrestling move from junior high? Suddenly folks expect you to shake it off like you’ve got a headache that’ll pass with a couple of ibuprofen and a walk in the woods.
Don’t get me wrong — I’m all for the healing power of nature. I’ve had some mighty fine revelations under a black spruce. But emotional trauma? It ain’t a tension headache. It’s more like a fracture of the psyche. And just like with a broken leg, you can’t see it, but it hurts like hell when you try to walk on it too soon.
Society’s got this lopsided yardstick when it comes to pain. If you can’t show your scar, if there’s no MRI scan or biopsy to back it up, people start to wonder if it’s all in your head.
Well, of course it’s in your head — that’s where your mind lives. But that doesn’t make it any less real.
We treat the soul like it’s supposed to be made of Kevlar. Take a bullet of loss, betrayal, fear — and bounce back. Go to work. Return your emails. Smile in photos.
But just like cancer needs treatment and a broken bone needs a cast, trauma needs time — and care — and sometimes therapy, medication, support groups, and just plain patience.
I knew a guy back in New Mexico who fell off a scaffolding. Shattered his hip. He was out of work for a year, had a titanium rod installed, and no one blamed him a lick for taking that time to heal.
But he also lost his wife six months before the fall — and when he didn’t want to come to the bar or make small talk at the diner, people started whispering. “When’s he gonna snap out of it?”
Funny, huh? We accept the mechanical healing of the body, but we treat the emotional healing of the mind like it’s an inconvenience.
So maybe today, we all try to be a little more aware. Maybe we remember that some people are walking around with casts you can’t see. Braces on the inside. Bandages around a heart we can’t measure in beats per minute.
And if someone says they’re not okay — maybe instead of rushing to fix them, we just sit. We listen. We offer a chair, not a solution.
Because healing isn’t always linear. It isn’t tidy. And sometimes the best medicine... is understanding.
You’ve been listening to Spiess in the Morning. Take care of each other out there otters — and don’t forget to treat your soul with the same tenderness you’d offer a broken bone.
Spiess in the Morning, bringing you a little hot sauce in the coffee on this fine July Fourth week, when the skies feel bigger, the air tastes like charcoal and corn, and the spirit of independence hums just beneath your skin like a well-tuned Stratocaster.
You know, I’ve been thinking about parades—those curious, nostalgic, almost poetic processions we roll out on Main Street once or twice a year. Parades are the strange lovechild of civic pride and small-town theater. They’re Americana in motion—bands marching, fire trucks wailing, beauty queens waving with practiced poise, and kids chasing candy like it’s gold dust on the wind.
Now, if you're ever looking to experience a parade that captures the essence of small-town magic wrapped in unapologetic Midwestern sincerity, might I recommend the Erhard, Minnesota, Fourth of July Parade.
Erhard. Population: somewhere between the number of people at The Depot on meat raffle night and the number of fish in nearby Moen Lake. And yet, every Fourth of July, that little town swells to thousands. People come from Fargo, Fergus Falls, even down from Manitoba. They gather like migratory birds returning to a particular bend in the river because they just know—it’s time.
This isn’t your high-production, televised Macy’s balloon & fancy floats parade. No, sir. This is tractors and hay bales, antique cars proudly chugging past like veterans of a forgotten mechanical age. This is candy tossed with reckless abandon from flatbeds carrying wrestling teams and multi-generational family clans. You’ve got a guy driving a riding lawn mower in a red, white, and blue tutu, and no one bats an eye. In fact, someone probably hands him a Coors Light.
And there’s a rhythm to it. The sirens kick it off. The flags flutter in time with the snare drums. You smell brats grilling on a side street and think about your granddad and how he used to complain about kids these days not knowing the words to "The Battle Hymn of the Republic."
But the truth is, there’s something deeper happening in Erhard, and in every other little town with a parade. It's like we’re playing out a ritual older than the republic itself. A reminder that freedom isn’t just fireworks and bumper stickers—it’s community. It’s shared tradition. It’s 9-year-olds on banana-seat bikes with streamers taped to the handlebars and elderly veterans in folding chairs, hand on heart, remembering those who didn’t come home.
Parades are how we stitch our personal stories to a collective tapestry. They say, We were here. We mattered. We celebrated. Even if it was just a man in a chicken suit dancing next to a 1979 Chevy pickup blaring John Mellencamp.
And here’s the best part, otters—no one’s too cool for a parade. Not really. Because when that flag passes by, when that trumpet hits the first few notes of the national anthem and a kid’s face lights up with joy over a Tootsie Roll landing in their lap… in that moment, we’re not blue or red, young or old, city slicker or corn-fed. We’re Americans, in the best, most innocent sense of the word.
So this week, maybe head out to your own Erhard. Stake out a patch of sidewalk. Bring a lawn chair. Bring a thermos of coffee or a flask of courage… whatever suits you… I’m certainly not going to judge you on Freedom Day.
Harness that community vibe and let yourself be part of the rhythm. The absurd, glorious, popcorn-scented rhythm of America in procession. We made it another year.
While we prep for America’s big birthday bash, let’s keep our hearts full of gratitude, our minds wide open and soul free like an eagle soaring across this glorious land.
This is Spiess in the Morning, reminding myself and anyone else listening that sometimes freedom isn’t loud. Sometimes it’s the quiet pride of a man polishing his ‘66 Pontiac GTO the night before the big parade, just hoping the clutch holds. Otter and out.
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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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Happy Monday Everyone! Feel free to like, share and or comment!
Please tune in Tuesday for more local lakes area tunes, totally tubular tales, and some small-town smiles.
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