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 June 25th, and the world feels like it’s stretching out in a big warm yawn—sun climbing up over the peaks, a few coyotes gossiping over breakfast, and the scent of something nostalgic drifting on the breeze.
Now I don’t know if it’s the solstice hangover or the smell of goat cheese frying in a cast iron skillet, but today’s one of those days that invites you to pause. A little slower, a little sweeter. A day with soul and seasoning.
Today, my beautiful otters, is National Catfish Day. Declared by President Reagan back in 1987, it's a tip of the hat to an often underestimated fish. Bottom dweller? Sure. But the catfish is all about transformation—ugly on the outside, maybe, but delicious once you give it time, heat, and the right spices. There’s a life lesson there: don’t judge what you haven’t taken the time to fry up with a little patience and respect.
And if catfish isn’t your style, how about something a bit more refined—it’s also National Goat Cheese Day. Creamy, tangy, stubbornly sophisticated. Goat cheese doesn’t try to be everyone’s favorite. It just is what it is. Kind of like that eccentric neighbor who makes their own kombucha and doesn’t own a TV—hard to explain, but hard to forget.
Also on the calendar: National Day of Joy. Not happiness—joy. Joy is deeper. Quieter. The kind that sneaks up on you when you’re watching your dog dream, or hearing your kid laugh in their sleep, or catching a song from your childhood on the radio at just the right moment.
And for those of us who know what it’s like to scrape our knees under a sun-drenched sky and live off bug spray and marshmallows, today is also Camp Counts Day. A celebration of what summer camp really means—late-night ghost stories, awkward dances, poison ivy rashes, and learning how to be your weird little self in a cabin full of strangers. It's where many of us first discovered independence, and maybe even a version of joy that didn't require a Wi-Fi signal.
And speaking of joy, the world got its fair share of it from the birthday club today…
The velvet-voiced, soul-saturated George Michael, born June 25, 1963. A pop prophet with the charisma of a Greek god and the vulnerability of a poet. Whether it was Faith or Freedom, George taught us you can dance through heartbreak and swagger through shame. A man who wore his truth with a touch of eyeliner and a whole lot of courage.
Carly Simon also celebrates today—the woman who made self-awareness an art form and turned revenge into radio gold. She gave voice to insecurities and romance like no one else. "You're so vain," she sang, and suddenly the world was looking in the mirror wondering if she meant us. Spoiler alert: she did.
Angela Kinsey, born today in 1971. Best known as Angela from The Office—the uptight cat lover with a serious gaze and a sneaky wit. Proof that even the coldest coffee mug in the break room might be holding a hot heart.
And for those of you looking for an Angela Office deep cut - Why are there so many flies in here?
And don’t forget Linda Cardellini—from Freaks and Geeks to Dead to Me, she's played every kind of complicated woman with honesty and soul. She’s the kind of actress who doesn’t just play a role—she inhabits it. Wears it like a second skin.
Jimmie Walker—that’s Dyn-o-mite J.J. Evans himself—reminding us that comedy can come from struggle, and laughter really is medicine if you mix it with just the right amount of grit.
Dikembe Mutombo, towering on and off the court, famous for his shot-blocking and that signature finger wag. But here’s the thing—they don’t give humanitarian awards for rebounds. Mutombo took his success and funneled it into hospitals, clinics, and hope for the people of the Congo. A real-life gentle giant.
And finally, Jeffrey “Chunk” Cohen, from The Goonies—now a Hollywood lawyer, but once the hero of the Truffle Shuffle. Proof that we all grow up, but deep down, we’re still looking for treasure maps in the attic and trying to save our little corner of the world. Baby Ruth bay-bee.
So yeah, June 25’s got flavor. It’s got funk. It’s even got Chunk. It’s also got goat cheese and catfish and joy stitched into its seams. It reminds us that campfires still count, that awkwardness can evolve into strength, and that the weird kid might just grow up to change the world—or at least defend it in court.
This is Spiess in the Morning, reminding myself and anyone else listening that today is the kind of day to do anything and everything your heart desires. Or can fit in, because fried fish, fresh cheese, a belly laugh from an old sitcom, and a little pop song that still makes your soul go Wham! is a lot to jam into one’s waking hours before they go-go. But at least it will be a joyful experience.
Spiess in the Morning here, broadcasting and podcasting live through the whispering pines and lazy river fog. The robins are gossiping already, and there's a chill in the air that says, “Put the kettle on and grab that old Twins hoodie it’s gunna be a Libra mental moment.”
As I sit here looking at a somewhat blank page conjuring up some words to write in preparation for today’s morning show, I look around the room for inspiration like Keyser Soze in the Usual Suspects.
Looking up, left, right and down. Then it hit me. You ever overthink about the typewriter? Or modern day - a keyboard?
But let’s start with the typewriter, the source if you will. Not the Word doc, not the blinking cursor waiting for a thumb tap on glass — I mean the real deal. Clackety-clack, ding, zip — return.
We are talking old school typewriter. That old cast-iron beast with ivory keys, like piano teeth ready to punch out a sonnet, a manifesto, or maybe just a grocery list with a little extra gravitas. Before the MacBook, before the floppy disc, before spellcheck started auto-correcting our idiosyncrasies right out of existence — there was the typewriter.
You see, it wasn’t just a machine. It was a method. A mood. It demanded intention. You had to mean what you wrote, because there was no delete key. Mistakes weren’t backspaced — they were lived with. Paper was expensive. Ribbons were fickle. And whiteout? That was for cowards or copywriters.
The first commercially successful typewriter came out in 1873, courtesy of Remington — the same guys who made rifles. Funny how America keeps trying to conquer the world with either bullets or words. Sometimes both.
Mark Twain, that rascal, was the first author to submit a typed manuscript to his publisher. Life on the Mississippi, banged out on a Remington No. 2. And with that clack, the world changed. The cadence of prose changed. Writers began to compose not by pen, with its lyrical loops and flowing ink, but with the rhythmic tap of hammers. And with that shift came a different kind of writing — punchier, sharper, more mechanical... yet somehow more immediate.
But here’s how my mind is chewing it around — it wasn’t just about the words we wrote, it was about how we physically trained our minds to write them. The QWERTY keyboard was an entirely new way to arrange the alphabet — not in neat ABCs like we learned in kindergarten, but in a deliberate design to slow us down, to keep early machines from jamming. And yet, that imperfect logic became the map for our brains. We trained our fingers to find letters not in order, but in rhythm. Our muscle memory rewired how we thought, how we communicated, how we learned. The typewriter didn’t just change our writing — it rearranged our neurons.
Think about Hemingway. Short. Declarative. Sober sentences. The man wrote like he was driving nails into wood. He didn’t meander — he struck. The typewriter didn’t just change how we wrote, it changed what we wrote. The tempo of the machine became the tempo of our thoughts.
And in a broader way, it democratized the written word. No longer did you need calligraphy or a monk’s patience. All you needed was ribbon and paper. Secretaries, journalists, poets, and revolutionaries all found common ground on those clickety keyboards. It was tactile. It was visceral. And it was real.
Now… fast forward.
Here we are, decades later, dictating to Siri, swiping thumbs across Gorilla Glass, cranking out captions for photos that disappear in 24 hours. Instant publishing. Global reach. But you know what we lost? That pause. That breath between the thought and the execution. The typewriter taught us patience. Deliberation. There was romance in the ritual.
Today, writing styles are evolving again. Emojis are hieroglyphs for the moment. The ellipsis has become a passive-aggressive sigh. Paragraphs have turned into tweets. But the core impulse — the yearning to say something, to leave a mark — that hasn’t changed.
Maybe that’s why some of us still keep an old Smith-Corona in the attic or a dusty Olivetti on the bookshelf. Not because we’re nostalgic Luddites, but because there’s something sacred about the weight of those keys. Something noble about committing a thought to the page with no safety net.
So whether you’re a finger-tapper, a pen-scratcher, or a voice-to-texter on the go, remember this: the act of writing — in any form — is a kind of love letter to the self, and to whoever’s listening out there in the universe.
Write boldly. Write messily. But most of all, write something.
Checking the weather and it looks like the sky is the color of a worn penny, and the trees are shaking off their dreams. Good chance of rain today otters, maybe grab the umbrella on the way out today.
Spiess in the Morning broadcasting and podcasting from the spectacular studios next to the swamp where the world is quiet enough to actually hear yourself think. And the birds.
Today I’m talking about the scarlet sentinel of the backyard, the red-robed choirboy of the conifer—yes, the cardinal.
You ever seen one flash across the water like a flame in the wind? That’s not just a bird, my friends. That’s a telegram from the universe. A fluttering miracle dipped in vermilion ink.
To the Native Americans — particularly the Cherokee and southeastern tribes — the cardinal is more than a feathered resident of the woods. It’s a messenger between this world and the next. Some say it’s the spirit of a loved one, visiting in silence. Others believe cardinals appear when the spirit world wants your attention, when you’re being guided, reminded, maybe even loved.
Cardinals mate for life, did you know that? Loyal little things. When you see one, especially in pairs, it’s said to be a sign of fidelity, unity. The Hopi considered birds spiritual connectors to the divine, and the cardinal? Well, it’s like your personal red-hooded priest, singing a sermon into the cold morning air.
Speaking of sermons — we got ourselves a few avian references in that good old leather-bound bestseller, the Bible. Matthew 6:26 — “Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your Heavenly Father feeds them.” That passage, my friends, reminds me of the cardinal’s song — clear, deliberate, unapologetic. The male cardinal sings to declare his territory and protect his nest. But maybe, just maybe, he’s also telling us to stop worrying so damn much and trust the sky to hold us up.
In Catholic tradition, some folks believe the cardinal is a symbol of the blood of Christ — a spiritual pop of red in a grey world. Kind of like a soul-light reminding us we’re not alone. Funny thing, though, the word “cardinal” itself comes from the Latin cardo, meaning “hinge.” A turning point. So maybe that little red flash is life opening a new door. A signal that change is perched nearby.
They’re monogamous, those cardinals. They sing together, they raise chicks together, they even feed each other — like some kind of avian Romeo and Juliet, minus the tragic ending. In a world of swipe-right love and ghosted promises, the cardinal is a crimson constant. A fluttering vow in a flannel-lined forest.
And did you know, my dear beautiful otters, that unlike most songbirds, both the male and female cardinal sing? In fact, the female often sings from the nest, possibly giving her mate a playlist of requests: “Bring me some seeds, darling. And none of those dry ones again.” A rare duet in the animal kingdom — a little yin and yang in red.
Now let’s talk folklore. In Appalachian legend, spotting a cardinal means good luck is on the horizon. Some believe if you see one, you should make a wish — but don’t tell anyone, or the spell is broken. There’s a certain hush that falls over a yard when a cardinal lands on a branch, like nature just cleared its throat and said, “Pay attention.”
And pay attention we should. Because in a world of algorithms and noise, a cardinal reminds us that beauty is not algorithmic. It just is. It flaps into your life unannounced, like a memory, or an old friend, or the scent of woodsmoke on a flannel shirt.
So this morning, as the mist and dew burns off the eaves and the sky cracks open with promise, keep your eyes peeled for the cardinal. He’s not just a bird. He’s a harbinger. A whisper. A hinge swinging toward something sacred.
From the nest in your backyard to wherever your path wanders, may your day be crimson-tipped and wild with wonder.
Spiess in the Morning here, broadcasting and podcasting from the spectacular studios next to the swamp, where the rivers run cold, the rabbits run smarter than most people, and time — well, it doesn’t always run at all. Sometimes, it just sits with you.
This morning I was pouring my coffee — French roast this morning, a little too strong, just how I like it — and I looked out the window at the mist and dew dusting the glass. And for no particular reason at all… I smiled. A little smile. No one saw it. Nothing big had happened. Just me, the coffee that stains porcelain, and the light catching the water droplets like diamonds scattered on cotton.
And it hit me: that right there — that was joy.
Not joy as in a fireworks-finale joy. Not joy like you just found out you won a Pulitzer or landed the perfect job or met the love of your life in a grocery store aisle over cantaloupes. No. This was quiet joy. The kind you almost miss if you’re not paying attention.
I remember when I was younger — joy felt like a destination. Like you had to earn it. Get the degree, get the gig, get the girl. Then you could be joyful. But life, life has a way of teaching you that the real stuff? It doesn’t always come wrapped in fanfare.
Reaching back into my years of attending Catholic School, teaching Sunday School and my current pastoral teachings — The Bible talks a lot about joy, not as a reward, but as a presence.
“The joy of the Lord is your strength,” it says. That verse used to confuse me. How is joy strength? Isn’t strength grit and willpower and pushing through? But now… I kind of get it. Because in those moments when the world is a little heavy — when your plans go sideways, when the people you love are hurting — it’s that little flicker of joy that keeps you going. A remembered laugh. A song from your childhood. A bowl of soup made just right. That’s strength. That’s the spine of the soul.
One time when I was out hiking, I found this tiny wildflower growing out of a crack in a rock. No soil, barely any sun. But there it was, standing proud, a little purple defiance against the elements. And I thought of that old Lakota tale — the one that says the Great Spirit hides joy in the smallest places so that only the humble, the still-hearted, can find it.
I guess that’s why Jesus said, “Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.” Maybe He meant that the ones who strip away the noise — the ones who look for light in the cracks — get a glimpse of something sacred. Not just in church pews or mountain tops, but in the laughter of a child. The kindness of a stranger. A raven’s wing slicing across a pink dawn.
And you know, the Greeks had this goddess named Euphrosyne — the spirit of joy and mirth. She wasn’t flashy. Didn’t command armies or ride chariots. She just danced. Danced at weddings, at harvests, at firesides when no one else felt like dancing. That’s a kind of bravery we don’t talk about much — the courage to find joy when the world gives you a million reasons not to.
Sometimes, I think joy lives in the in-between. The in-between of heartbreak and healing. Of silence and song. Of losing something and finding yourself.
When my dad died — a few years ago, over in Detroit Lakes — I didn’t expect joy to visit. But I remember the night after the funeral, sitting by the lake with my friends and family, passing around what we had, and telling old stories that made us laugh so hard we cried. And in that strange swirl of grief and memory… joy showed up. Sat with us. Didn’t say a word. Just… stayed.
So maybe that’s it. Maybe joy isn’t the absence of sorrow, but the quiet decision to keep noticing the beauty anyway. To find the sacred in the mundane. To say yes to life, even when life is full of no’s.
Today, my beautiful otters — wherever you are, whatever you’re doing — maybe take a moment. Look for it. The small stuff. The click of a typewriter key. The flicker of a candle. The way your dog tilts its head when you say something ridiculous.
Joy lives there.
This is Spiess in the Morning, reminding myself and anyone listening you don’t have to chase joy. Just slow down long enough to let it catch up.
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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Please tune in tomorrow for more local lakes area tunes, totally tubular tales, and some small-town smiles.
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