Rise and Shine Otters, it’s June 17th, and the air has that curious quality of late spring up here—where the light stretches long and the shadows start thinking deep thoughts. This is Spiess in the Morning, transmitting soul waves from the spectacular studios next to the swamp, like a cosmic compass through the wilderness of time and space.
You know, June 17th is kind of like a buffet of curious little treats—nothing overwhelming, but enough spice and sweetness to make you sit back, sip your tea, and think, “Yeah, the universe knows how to throw a low-key party.”
First up, it’s National Apple Strudel Day, and if that doesn’t make you feel like donning a pair of suspenders and dancing through the Alps with a flaky pastry in your hand, well, you might be missing a strudel-shaped hole in your heart. Let’s not forget National Eat Your Vegetables Day—nature’s way of reminding us that kale matters, even when you’re craving fried zucchini. Balance, baby. It’s all about balance. And for those of you whose palates lean a little more toward the sweet fizz of nostalgia, today is also National Root Beer Day. Float optional, joy mandatory.
And how about this? It’s also National Mascot Day. From Tony the Tiger to the Phillie Phanatic, mascots are those oversized, googly-eyed guardians of spirit and silliness. Behind every foam head is a brave soul sweating buckets for your entertainment. Let’s raise a foam finger in solidarity, shall we?
Now let’s flip through the celestial Rolodex of birthdays today. The pipes of Barry Manilow turn 81 candles old. The man could make even a laundromat feel like a concert hall. And Kendrick Lamar, the poet laureate of the millennial generation, celebrates his 38th spin around the sun. That’s some lyrical gravity right there—rap as literature, pain wrapped in metaphor, fire set to rhythm.
Venus Williams—one of the greatest to ever pick up a tennis racket—is out there somewhere probably practicing her serve like it’s the final of Wimbledon. Power. Grace. Determination. She’s 45 today and still teaching us how to stand tall, especially when life serves us a curveball.
And speaking of serving up laughs, how about Will Forte and Greg Kinnear, those twin jesters of sincerity and absurdity, both born on this day. Toss in Thomas Haden Church, that gravel-voiced actor who always looks like he’s either solving a cosmic riddle or hasn’t had coffee yet. And then there’s the spectral presence of Art Bell, the late-night radio whisperer of the strange and unexplained, broadcasting to the insomniac hearts and tinfoil hats of the world.
For the musical minds among us, Igor Stravinsky was born on this day back in 1882. Composer, disruptor, ballet revolutionary. And let’s not forget Charles Gounod, the man who gave us the Ave Maria that haunts cathedrals and the occasional movie trailer.
June 17, 1885, also gave us the Statue of Liberty—but not in New York. Nope, today was the day Lady Liberty arrived in New York Harbor...in pieces. Like most of us, she came disassembled, hoping to stand tall with a little help.
And in the pop culture shuffle of June 17, 1994, sports fans got sensory overload. O.J. Simpson’s infamous Ford Bronco chase interrupted the NBA Finals, Arnold Palmer’s last round at the U.S. Open happened, and the Rangers celebrated the Stanley Cup. Chaos and pageantry, flipping channels like chasing lightning bugs.
So what’s the moral of today, folks? Maybe it’s this: Life is a weird stew of vegetables, root beer, and the occasional apple strudel. A day where mascots dance, composers whisper from the past, and hip-hop poets share the same spotlight with soft rock legends. It’s a day that reminds us that the spectrum of the human experience can be celebrated, mourned, danced to, and laughed at—all in 24 hours.
Stay curious, otters. Hug your mascot. Eat your broccoli. And if Barry Manilow or Kendrick Lamar start playing in your dreams tonight—don’t fight it. Just flow with it.
Stay strange, stay kind and enjoy June 17.
Spiess in the Morning, your humble sage of the soundwaves, coming at you live with a coffee-stained flannel shirt, a beat-up copy of Thoreau, and a fresh thought buzzing around in my head—literally and figuratively.
You see, this week is National Pollinator Week, which might not mean much to a guy slinging fishing line or fixing up a jetski, but hang on. Let’s walk down this honeycomb path together.
Pollinators. Those little winged workhorses—bees, butterflies, bats, birds, beetles. They’re the unnoticed artisans of the natural world, responsible for fertilizing over 75% of the flowering plants on Earth. That includes around one-third of the food we eat. Think about that next time you crunch into an apple, sip your morning coffee, or serve up guacamole at poker night. No bees, no beans. No avocados. No almonds.
Economically, pollinators are the unsung tycoons of agriculture—contributing somewhere around $235 to $577 billion dollars a year globally. That’s billion with a “B,” folks. That’s half a trillion dollars, and yet we treat them like second-class citizens in the kingdom of nature. Pesticides, habitat loss, and climate change… it’s like throwing firecrackers in the Louvre.
But here’s the rub: long before the USDA got wise to the dollar value of a honeybee, our ancestors understood the deeper, more spiritual value of these creatures.
The ancient Egyptians believed bees were born from the tears of Ra, the Sun God himself. That’s some heavy cosmic symbolism. The Maya worshipped Ah-Muzen-Cab, the bee god, protector of honey and the sacred cycle of life. They built their cities with beekeeping in mind and sipped sacred honey wine long before your cousin brewed his first mead in a garage near Parker’s Prairie.
And our Native American brothers and sisters? They saw pollinators as messengers—symbols of diligence, unity, and the quiet harmony of community. The Zuni held butterflies in high regard as signs of transformation, while the Cherokee honored bees for their role in food and medicine, viewing them as emissaries of the spirit world.
Even the Bible drops a few nods to our buzzing friends. In Deuteronomy 8:8, the promised land is described as “a land of wheat and barley, of vines and fig trees and pomegranates, a land of olive oil and honey.” Honey—nectar of the gods, literally and literarily. John the Baptist lived off it in the wilderness. And in Proverbs, we’re told, “Eat honey, my son, for it is good.” Now if the wisdom of Solomon doesn’t convince you to respect your pollinators, I don’t know what will.
And let’s not forget the poets. Emily Dickinson called the bee “the merriest minute.” Khalil Gibran said, “To the bee, a flower is the fountain of life.” And me? I just think they’re cool. Little Zen monks with wings. They don’t take more than they need, they give more than they get, and they never stop working for the betterment of the hive. There’s something divine in that rhythm.
So this week, as we celebrate Pollinator Week, let’s take a moment between mowing lawns and marinating steaks to thank the pollinators. Plant a flower. Leave the dandelions. Support a beekeeper. Or just sit quietly and watch a butterfly do its thing.
They’re more than just bugs and birds and bats—they’re the threads that stitch together this planet’s tapestry.
Alright, otters. Coming up next—something sweet and soft. Because nothing says “appreciate the bees” like a voice that flutters like wings in spring.
Stay grounded. Stay grateful.
SONG BY EMMA WOOD AND TIM EGGEBRAATEN
It's a different one out there today otters. At least for me it is. It feels like the frost is still clinging to the edges of existence like an old truth trying to hang on in a world of well-oiled fictions. Who ever said processing life was easy?
This morning, I want to talk about lies. Not those little white lies we tell to keep the peace, smooth out the social fabric—like saying you love Aunt Joanie’s mystery casserole, even when your stomach's staging a quiet rebellion. No, I'm talking about the kind of lie that requires scaffolding. The kind of lie that doesn't just stand alone, but needs a family of other lies to survive. A house of cards built on sand, on wind, on illusion.
What do you do when the lie comes from someone you get? Someone whose voice has wrapped around your soul like a warm wool blanket on a cold Minnesota night? What happens when that voice starts sounding hollow—when the notes are right, but the music is wrong?
Psychologist Carl Jung said, “The greatest tragedy of the family is the unlived lives of the parents.” And I wonder if sometimes the lies we’re told are born out of those unlived lives—fantasies, regrets, old wounds rewrapped in tinsel. Maybe the liar’s trying to protect you. Or maybe, more honestly, protect themselves from the shame of being seen. Really seen.
But there's a cruelty to that, isn't there? When someone you love decides you can't handle the truth—not because you're weak, but because their version of love is conditional on control. Lies are control. Lies are architecture—building a reality where you're just a tenant, not the owner. You don't get to decorate your life with truth. You're living in their blueprint.
In Greek mythology, there's a story of Penelope, wife of Odysseus. While he was away battling monsters and gods, she weaved a tapestry by day and unwove it by night to keep suitors at bay. But what if the lie isn't protective weaving? What if it's a labyrinth, like the one Daedalus built for the Minotaur—a maze designed not to free, but to trap?
And speaking of Minotaurs, betrayal has its own beastly nature, doesn't it? It snarls in the dark corners of the heart. In Genesis, we meet the first lie—a snake with a silver tongue in Eden. “Surely you won’t die,” he says to Eve, and just like that, paradise is lost. Not because of a bite from a fruit, but from a betrayal wrapped in a promise.
Being lied to by someone you love and trust—it’s a kind of spiritual dismemberment. It’s looking in the mirror and not recognizing your own eyes because someone you trusted changed the lighting. You ask yourself: Did I miss the signs? Did I want to believe too badly? Was I complicit in my own illusion?
And maybe the scariest part is how seductive lies can be. They’re easier than truth. Softer. You can rest on them like pillows… until you find out they’re full of broken glass. And by then, your heart’s got more stitches than skin.
But healing… oh, healing’s a funny thing. It doesn’t come in the form of dramatic revelations or shouted confrontations. It comes in quiet knowing. In refusing to let your soul bend to the geometry of someone else’s deception. In rebuilding—not the house of lies—but the cabin of your truth, even if you’re the only one living in it.
Forgiveness? Well, that’s a whole other show. But maybe it starts with forgiving yourself—for loving honestly, for being open, for not suspecting that behind the curtain was a play you didn’t audition for.
So if you’re out there, walking under a sky that's more honest than most people—just remember this: you don't owe your life to someone else's illusion. Truth may be lonely. But lies—they’re isolating. And somewhere, in the space between betrayal and understanding, there’s you. Still breathing. Still worthy. Still whole.
This is Spiess in the Morning, reminding myself and anyone else listening that even in Minnesota, the metaphorical ice can crack. But so can the reality of the dawn. Stay warm, stay honest, and stay true, otters.
SONG BY SAVING REIGN
Perham, Minnesota — where the turtles are the real celebrities, and folks gather not for flash or fame, but for a little wisdom wrapped in a shell.
It’s mid-June, and in Perham, that means Turtle Fest. That’s right — June 18th and 19th, the town turns into a celebration of one of nature’s slowest, most enduring travelers. Turtles. Creatures that remind us that getting there isn’t half the battle — it’s the whole journey.
Now, the cynics might chuckle — turtle races? A parade? But let me tell you, there’s something beautifully subversive about putting a reptile that moves at half a mile a day on center stage. It's as if Perham took the American obsession with speed, threw it into neutral, and said, "Let’s honor something that knows how to wait, how to endure, how to live long and steady."
You got your classic carnival rides, turtle races so intense you’d swear they were sponsored by NASCAR if it weren’t for the fact that the racers are wearing painted numbers on their shells and may or may not even leave the starting circle. You got your turtle derby queens, beer gardens, sidewalk chalk competitions, community worship, and street dances that’d make the fireflies jealous.
And don’t forget the local charm. Small towns, like turtles, carry their homes on their backs — in the sense that the people are the town, not just passing through. The grocer knows your name, the librarian knows your favorite book, and the mayor might be the guy who grilled your bratwurst.
In mythology, turtles hold up the Earth. In Native American lore, Turtle Island is the name for North America — a sacred place resting on the back of a giant turtle, steady and strong. The Bible tells us about patience and perseverance, about the meek inheriting the Earth — and if any creature has made meekness its trademark, it's the turtle.
And yet, even the turtle races. Not in haste. Not in fear. But because it’s part of the rhythm of being. Part of the dance.
So if you find yourself wandering the land of 10,000 lakes Wednesday or Thursday this week, maybe roll over to Perham. Grab a lemonade. Watch a turtle take its sweet time crossing the finish line. And remember — in a world obsessed with fast lanes, 5G, and delivery drones — sometimes it’s the slow ones who teach us the most.
This is Spiess in the Morning, broadcasting and podcasting from a place where the trees don’t check their watches, the wind doesn’t rush its errands, and a turtle might just remind you what it means to really live.
Over and out Otters.
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OTTER TALK COMMUNITY CALENDAR
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 (Elizabeth Area)
Abbie’s Farm Fresh Eggs - $9 for 30 eggs - washed or unwashed - call or text 320-349-0942
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 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. Not only does the Bookmobile have 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.
If you have a community event for the Community Bulletin Board, email studio@ottertalk.media
Food & Festivities
Long Bridge Bar, Grill & Marina (Detroit Lakes): Check out the Pepper Jack Slaw Dog, a 1/4 lb all beef hot dog served on a poppy seed bun with sweet chili sauce, spicy pepper jack cheese, and topped with coleslaw.
Knotty Pine (Elbow Lake): Offering great food, cold drinks, and fantastic service. It’s Create-Your-Own-Pasta time - your choice of pasta, protein, sauce and veggies!
Garden Bar (Alexandria): Locally owned, The Garden Bar is committed to providing its guests with a memorable dining experience through fresh and eclectic menu options, an extensive wine and beer list and hand-crafted cocktails. Celebrate Truffle Day and try the Pomme Frites, which are hand-cut, then topped with gruyere, bacon, scallions and truffle aioli.
Rothsay Powerhouse (Rothsay): Burgers, wings, walleye fingers, dinner specials and much more! Live Music, tasty drinks and friendly staff.
Want Otter Talk to highlight a local musician or upcoming gig? Email studio@ottertalk.media
Happy Tuesday Everyone! Feel free to like, share and or comment!
Please tune in tomorrow for more local lakes area tunes, totally tubular tales, and some small-town smiles.
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