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The Birdwatcher’s Wings

Willis Hall used a trip wire to photograph himself with a trio of red-tailed hawk fledglings.

I sat in the hospital room, watching my friend breathe. He was 86. I felt a little guilty watching him, because he was the most private person I ever knew, and I’m not sure he would have approved; yet it is hard to look away when you love someone. Sometimes we think if we do just a little more, it will be all right. Of course it is not our decision. Willis would have us know that.

I knew Willis Hall for 25 years. He was my mentor and my friend. That he and Rosamond let me be with them was a gift.

I met Willis for the first time when they came to our house to show a group of Yankton College teachers some bird slides. It was love at first sight. He, his Rosamond, and their incredible photographs are the things on which I imprinted as fast as a gosling on the goose. I was cooked. At 7 the very next morning, the three of us began our first of hundreds of birding trips. We three, and sometimes my husband too, eventually would cross what seemed like every prairie pothole and dusty back road in the six-state region. We never took the main road except to get to another dirt road. My gift to Willis was to find a back road he hadn’t traveled before.

By canoe in the summer, he introduced me to least terns and piping plovers on Missouri River sandbars. Above the river, in the low oak hills and on grass-covered bentonite clay cliffs, we found Dutchman’s breeches and the pasqueflower in the spring and buffaloberries and LeConte’s sparrows in the fall. We hiked the hills, checking wild plum bushes for Bell’s vireo and spotted towhee nests and scouting for deer, turkeys, prairie ring-necked snakes and his favorite, great horned owls.

In the winter, we kicked the soccer ball over the park trails or skied the woods in search of red-bellied woodpeckers and bluebirds.

And in the last two years, I played my first tennis ever, with a man who had played for 70 years. Ever patient, he never gave up on me; he just kept putting the ball over the net. If we were distracted by nighthawks and nuthatches at his favorite park counter, so much the better.

In the early days we spotted and counted birds, and he photographed. Rosamond judiciously jotted their numbers and exact locations on the back of recycled envelopes in writing so small a magnifying glass was required to read it. From him I first heard very patient answers to my questions about bird identification, photography and all things having to do with the natural world. If I spotted a bird, impulsively calling it out, Rosamond would always say,”Willis?” and only when he confirmed a sighting, would she add it to the list. I think it was five years before they accepted my birds.

His friend Phil Hall from North Dakota, who explores and writes on the natural history of the Badlands, also writes of Willis’ patience. “One spring, I believe it was in 1982, I noticed that a golden eagle had reclaimed its nest high up in the wall that defines the east side of Red Canyon. I phoned Willis, and 36 hours later he and Rosamond appeared in the pasture by my cabin. After the obligatory tea for an Englishman, we set out for the eagle’s nest, which was about 10 miles down the canyon. While the nest looked close to the road, it was a deceivingly long hike, and just short of vertical. Willis led the way, hauling a camera, a big lens, binoculars, and a heavy camera bag. At the time, I was 39 and he was 69. I struggled to keep up with him.

“We advanced as far up the canyon wall as possible. There, we ducked behind a scrubby cedar tree. Out of his bag, Willis produced a small piece of camouflage cloth, which he draped around us. We sat like rocks for two hours. However, I twice shifted my weight and once had to scratch an itchy nose. We waited without breathing.

“The eagle never came, and Willis finally announced that we should hike back to the pickup. I was chagrined at not being able to show him the eagle. As we gathered up the equipment, I asked, ‘Willis, why do you think the eagle never came to its nest?’

“‘We moved too much,’ he replied.”

At home he was constantly on the move. If Rosamond was his ears, he was her legs. She might say, “Willis, get me the bird notes from the kitchen.”

He would respond, “Where are they?”

“In the pea bag on the counter.” He would go, and return empty handed and baffled. She would carefully repeat, “Pea bag!”

“Oh!” he said, “I thought you said tea bag.”

And they both would exchange glances that said, “Pay attention, dear. Speak more clearly, dear.” But they were smiling at each other.

Their relationship was a curious delight to the college students. She regarded her students highly and held extra classes at their home. One of her former French students wrote, “I remember one time Miss Burgi called to Willis to please bring that cereal box to her. When she had it she reached in and pulled out my homework. Of course! Homework in a cereal box. He was dear and I knew there was some serious devotion going on in that house. “

Theirs was indeed the language of serious devotion. They chose their cadences carefully. She may have been the professor of Latin, but he was the poet. He spoke plain English.

From her I first heard exotic bird terms. “Is that a bird or an excrescence?”

I asked for translation, and Willis, in all seriousness, answered, “Excrescence — a bump on a log — excrescence.” And looked at her. And she smiled.

Rosamond once told me she would rather be struck from a mountain than linger aimlessly. In 1992 she suffered a stroke and passed from her mountain. He believed he would be with her again. In 1998 he wrote the poem Almighty God.

A few leaves flutter in the breeze.

These too shall all be gone.

Almighty God shall bring them

back again.

Each one, its perfect self, shall be

A part of me, as it has been.

She too, My Rosamond,

shall be again.

Willis never wanted to impose. Waiting at the doctor’ s office, he had a sniffle. I told him I had taken a zinc lozenge for my sniffles. He seemed absolutely mystified. He looked at me, and rather than have me repeat, an imposition, he tried to further the conversation by eliciting more information. He questioned, “Where does one get such a substance?”

“Oh, probably from chewing rocks,” I replied.

Somewhat alarmed, Willis said, “From chewing rats?”

Now this was a man who rescued bats and carried indoor insects outside so they’d have a fighting chance. “No,” I said, “from chewing rocks, r-o-c-k-s.” Concerned that I had confused rather than amused him I said, ”I’m only kidding, Willis. It’s a joke.” He, waiting for me to breathe as I watched his face, looked me straight in the eye and said the only zinc he knew was the kitchen zinc.

With deep relief for the moment and for so much else, I laughed. I detected a sly smile on his face. I knew that once again — I’d been cooked.

We moved Willis from the protected environment of his hospital room to an adjoining nursing home where we hoped he could convalesce from the pneumonia for which he’d been hospitalized. His beloved brother, Winston, had died six weeks before, and he was greatly saddened.

Several times over those weeks in the hospital, health care workers asked me if he was my father. One day, through deafened ears, he responded , “Daughter … and mother.”

I combed his gray hair and said he looked like a tufted puffin, the longhaired seabird whose wings are better suited for diving for fish than for flying. He said he had never had a higher compliment. Two weeks later he said he felt he had come to the end of a long race. The next week he said he wished he could start over. When I asked if he wanted anything he replied, “What I want is unobtainable.” Three days later he had a small stroke. He did not recognize the oak bough I brought. For another day he said nothing.

And then he revived.

A long time ago, trying to keep up with him, I had asked Willis if he could live without walking. He said he guessed on his deathbed he’d get up and take a walk. And he did. At sunset, we went outside and walked the half block to the edge of the bluff. In silence we looked down at ducks silhouetted on a silver bend in the river.

I told him I had spoken with his oldest friend, Wes Cook, who now lives in New Mexico. His eyes widened. “Is he well?” Willis asked. Those were his last words.

I had brought him a gift, a large photo I’d taken in Alaska, a single tufted puffin facing the sea. He looked at the bird. He smiled at me and nodded. This time he would have to fly.

Editorís Note: This story is revised from the May/June 2000 issue of South Dakota Magazine. To order a copy or to subscribe, call (800) 456-5117.

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A Lasting Legacy

Our July/August issue includes a story by John Andrews on Joseph Ward. Ward came to Yankton in the late 1860s to spread congregationalism, but his legacy in South Dakota extends far beyond the church. Andrews collected several photos from the Yankton College archives for the feature. Here are some that we couldn’t fit into the magazine.

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Advice from South Dakota Dads

In honor of Father’s Day, we asked South Dakota Magazine staff members for their favorite bits of fatherly advice, pet phrases and the like. If you’re a South Dakota dad looking to make your mark, take notes — or follow contributing editor Paul Higbee’s lead. “As a dad, if you find yourself in a situation where you have no wisdom to offer, try to at least be witty,” Paul says. “It’s hard to imagine a really good dad who isn’t funny on a regular basis.”


Andrea (center) with mother Lorri and father Spud.

Leland “Spud” Clark

My dad’s words of wisdom were also his dad’s words of wisdom. “Always carry,” “You can wish in one hand and spit in the other and see which one you have more of”‘ and “I’m gonna get my belt!” were perennial favorites. I never got the belt, but Dad did.
Andrea Clark Maibaum, production manager

Bernard Hunhoff, Sr.

“Oh, it’ll be ok,” was Dad’s reply when Mom worried about one of us, and his standard reply to most crises unless it involved troubled farm machinery. Then he wasn’t always as positive.
Bernie Hunhoff, founder & editor at large


Heidi and her father Doyle riding Purgatory and Rachetta. Sadly, Cakes probably stayed home for this outing.

Doyle Stevens

Growing up, we had a fat, stubborn horse named Cakes. She was adored by kids because she never turned down fresh grass and she never moved faster than a trot. Her one vice was being led into a trailer. We’d pull and tug on her lead rope and she’d tug back even harder. It usually ended with my dad leaving her home. ‘We don’t need that fat cow anyway!’ he’d snort under his breath. We finally discovered that it was the tugging on the lead rope that made Cakes so mad. Once the lead rope fell to the ground and she walked into the trailer on her own. “Huh,” said Dad, “Sometimes you have to let go and see what the other side does.” Letting go. Who knew? Well, I’m pretty sure Dad knew.
Heidi Marsh, publisher

Frank, John and baby Joe.

Frank Andrews

Dad was never into gadgets and gizmos. All the extras — even power windows on vehicles — were just things that would eventually break and have to be replaced. He came along with us when we were shopping for our first house in Yankton, and I consulted him on major purchases after that. Every time he reminded me that the fancy add-ons were often just not necessary. You probably can’t find a decent car these days with crank windows, but I try to keep it simple as often as I can.
John Andrews, managing editor

Bernie Hunhoff

My dad has always preached that ideas come easy and the real work (and fun) happens after you settle on an idea.
Katie Hunhoff, publisher

Lewis Johnson

Father’s a bit of a free spirit. Me, not so much, but I’ve always admired his attitude. I’ve spent decades trying to process particular pearl of Dad wisdom: “As long as you’re having a good time, it doesn’t matter if anyone else is.” Maybe in another 40 years, I’ll get there.
— Laura Johnson Andrews, circulation and marketing manager

Gary Pederson

My dad recently retired from a long, successful career in sales. He’s given me a lot of good advice, but one thing that stands out is the importance of a good handshake. I had to practice it with him when I was a kid. First he showed me what he described as a dead fish or wussy handshake — gentle grasp or just grabbing hold of someone’s fingers. Then he taught me a good firm shake, palm to palm, not too short, not too long. I don’t find myself in a lot of hand-shaking situations, but I think I get some weak ones because I am a woman. Whenever I get a limp handshake, I think of my dad and how he would not be impressed.
— Rebecca Johnson, special projects coordinator


A self-portrait of Joe Holtzmann, Jr. as a young man in the 1940s, working in his photographic darkroom.

Joe Holtzmann, Jr.

Mom and Dad had a strict division of labor when I was growing up: Dad went to work and Mom took care of the house. Thus it was quite surprising to find Dad in front of the stove one day, spatula in hand, preparing to fry an egg. “Make sure the pan is hot before you put the egg in,” he advised, taking advantage of the teaching moment. And so I have from that day to this.
— Roger Holtzmann, contributing editor

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Masons: Losing the Mystery

Yankton’s imposing Masonic Temple anchors the corner of Fourth and Cedar downtown.

The Masonic Temple is downtown Yankton’s tallest and most impressive building. Three stories of brick in a two-story town, it sturdily anchors the corner of Fourth and Cedar, rising well above the impressive former U.S. Post Office building a block away. Even as a boy, I was awed by the architecture — twin turrets, two sets of castle-like bronze doors, arched windows and a two-headed eagle captured both in stained glass art above the doors and in stone high atop the building.

We youth of Yankton could only imagine what was inside because the doors were locked (yes, we tested them) and the ground floor windows were usually too high for window peeping. The less we knew, the more we imagined. One of my Catholic friends thought that whoever was inside might be plotting against the pope. We also heard that the Masons wanted to control the world, which made me wonder how that differed from the Republicans and Democrats. Some evenings, all the lights in the old building were on until late, and on those nights we imagined exciting ceremonies that possibly involved skulls or goats, or bearded men in long, flowing robes.

My suspicions diminished as I grew older and came to learn that the Masons were the town’s teachers, store clerks, bankers and farmers — and that there were greater mysteries in life than whatever was occurring at Fourth and Cedar. However, the Scottish Rite temple remained an enigma, and I never expected to see inside.

I hadn’t given much thought to the Masons or the grand temple for years, even though I drove past it a few times a day. But one morning, much to my surprise, Don Rasmussen stopped by our magazine office to invite me to an initiation ceremony and to view rituals I’d wondered about as a kid. Rasmussen, a retired college professor and 33rd Degree Mason (the very highest rank), didn’t look he could be guilty of trickery. And he was very forthright about why he was seeking out a writer: secrecy isn’t serving his fellow Masons well in the 21st century, so they literally want to throw open the big bronze doors and let people see inside. I accepted the invitation and began to research Freemasonry. Here’s what I unearthed.

Many fraternal organizations maintain secrecy, but none gained a reputation quite like the Masons. That dates to the Middle Ages, when building craftsmen distinguished themselves from serfs when seeking work on major projects like cathedrals by exchanging secret passwords and handshakes. The secrecy has now outlasted the cathedral construction boom by several centuries.

The theater in Yankton’s stately Scottish Rite Center is the scene of performances that involve costumes, props and singing by the members. Performances are meant to aid members in their quests to become better citizens.

Shedding their craftsman origins in the 18th century to become a philosophical organization, the Freemasons were instrumental in America’s development. Many of our founding fathers were Freemasons: Thomas Paine, Benjamin Franklin, Thomas Jefferson, John Adams and Paul Revere, among others. So was Benedict Arnold, for that matter. George Washington is the patron saint of Freemasonry in the United States and his image appears in nearly every American lodge. Fifteen presidents were Freemasons, the last being Gerald Ford. Over the centuries, the Freemasons took in members from all walks of society, ranging from Mozart, Duke Ellington, Sugar Ray Robinson and Davy Crockett to Peter Sellers, Casanova, Winston Churchill, Voltaire and John Wayne.

The Shrine order was started in 1970 by men who thought a Mason should have more fun.”It’s called the playground of Freemasonry,” says Charles Kaufman, a retired University of South Dakota professor and Sovereign Grand Inspector General of the Supreme Council for the Orient of South Dakota, which means he’s the state’s representative on the National Supreme Council in Washington, D.C. With its circus and presence in parades, the Shriners are the most visible, and most charitable, arm of South Dakota Freemasonry.

South Dakota’s first Masonic lodge was formed in Yankton in 1862 when Dakota Territory was just a year old. The Deadwood lodge, established in 1877, has South Dakota’s first elevator, large enough to accommodate a casket.”There used to be quite a few funerals here,” says Willie Steinlicht, the lodge secretary. The Deadwood building also includes a steam bath, shower and bedroom for ranchers who travel long distances to attend rituals.

While Yankton has a stately temple, in the tradition of the Freemason’s building-craft heritage, most South Dakota lodges — such as in Vermillion, Elk Point and Tyndall — suggest the frugality of people on the prairie. Often, the ground floors are leased to merchants and the upper floors serve as lodges. Not all buildings were originally built to be Freemason lodges; the Montrose lodge was once a church. Wessington’s is a converted schoolhouse, and the Sturgis lodge was a Kingdom Hall for Jehovah’s Witnesses. Sometimes, the lodge was a community’s only gathering place, so South Dakota Freemasons turned a blind eye to the order’s ban of alcohol on the premises.

Declining membership prompted Masons to shed the mystery, according to Charles Kaufman of Vermillion.

The Freemasons are entrenched in the history of South Dakota. Eighteen of the state’s governors were Masons, the last being George S. Mickelson. Mount Rushmore sculptor Gutzon Borglum was a Mason, and Seth Bullock, W.E. Adams and Sol Star belonged to the Deadwood lodge. George McGovern was a Grand Mason due to his work with the World Food Organization.

Despite all my research, I was admittedly anxious when I approached the entry to the Scottish Rite lodge in Yankton. It is as imposing as ever. Would I see much? Maybe the entryway and meeting room, no more? Rather, I received a warm greeting from Kaufman and Brian Holcomb, the lodge’s executive secretary. They gave me the three-story tour — from the basement dining area to forgotten items in the attic and three walk-in safes that no one alive can explain.

We saw meeting rooms for the Masons and for the Order of the Eastern Star, which includes women as members. Officers sit at each end of the Masonic meeting room and chairs for regular members line the walls. Only the Master of the lodge wears a hat during meetings. Overall, the room shows respect for hierarchy, but nothing that warrants suspicion.

The hub of the temple is a theater, complete with a balcony, backdrops, stage lighting and a costume room. The furnishings include a rare roll organ (like a player piano), installed in 1926, and in one of the safes are more than 120 valuable rolls of music, from Mozart to”Stars and Stripes Forever.” The theater is the scene of investitures and performances for advancement.

Music is important to the Masonic tradition. A Mason’s ambition is to become an ever-better citizen, and his advancement is measured in degrees. An entry level, third degree Mason, who can come from any religious faith so long as he believes in a supreme being, progresses through 32 degrees in part by viewing performances steeped in symbolism. Masons respect symbols, which is why some people call the order an esoteric society, not a secret society.

“Symbolism is a way to get people to focus on common icons, philosophies and ideas,” Kaufman explains.”If I see a letter on a high school jacket and I went to that school, we would have a common bond.”

The performances, with music and stories from various religions, are customarily held in secret. But two performances no longer used for degree advancement are now open to public viewing. I observed them from a balcony.

The theater was pitch-black. A spotlight shone on a young woman, a member’s daughter, sitting on what appeared to be a crescent moon. She sang a soulful song as she and the moon rose slowly until her head neared an illuminated star attached to the ceiling. As the song ends, the theater goes back to black. You could hear a pin drop.

The two-headed eagle, a historic Masonic symbol, is depicted in stained glass on the Yankton lodge.

The audience later was told that the play is based on the story in the Koran of Israfel who made beautiful music from the heavens. For Masonic purposes, she represents the universality of the fraternal order. I ducked back stage to discover a steel elevating arm with seat and crescent-moon shape, all placed on what appeared like a railroad track extending out toward the audience. It’s one of the only such devices in the United States, if not the world.

The other performance, called the”Prince of Lebanus,” features Masons dressed in workman’s clothes from an indeterminate period in history. There was some acting and chorale singing; the singing was very good. All of it stresses the value of honest work.

Equally fascinating was the investiture of 32-degree Masons to the Knight Commander of the Court of Honour. Kaufman patted his gloved hand on each honoree’s shoulder, as if they were to be knighted, and placed red caps on their heads. The ceremony ended with the bonding of all attending Masons around an altar on which sat a sword, the Bible, a candle and builder’s tools.

In a sparsely furnished room off the theater, photos of new classes of Masons in Yankton’s Scottish Rite lined the wall. Fifty-three new members were initiated in the fall of 1955, just two in 2002. The decline has been steady, and if that trend continues Kaufman believes Freemasonry could”fade away” in South Dakota. Is the enigmatic ritual and aura of secrecy that once lured new membership into Freemasonry now a hindrance?

Today, 6,658 men belong to the Masonic lodges of South Dakota. That’s about one-third the number who belonged during the society’s peak years in the 1950s.

“There’s been a change in culture,” Kaufman agrees.”Now both members of the family work; TV is a factor, and there’s more involvement with children.” Activities that include the whole family seem to be more popular than organizations for adults only — or in the case of the Masons, men only, with auxiliaries for women and young adults.

The Masons aren’t alone. Other once-popular fraternal organizations in South Dakota such as the Elks, Moose and Kiwanis also have shrinking memberships.”Our members are getting older and older,” laments Ed Allen, membership chairman for the Loyal Order of Moose in Yankton.

An investiture ceremony was held before the Knight Commander of the Court of Honour.

The Yankton Benevolent and Protective Order of Elks has fewer than half the members it once had. James Van Osdel, president of the South Dakota Elks Association, gives a regional twist to the culture change impacting membership.”The farmers used to have two-row corn pickers and they’d work ëtil 6 o’clock every night and found just enough time to go to the Elks on Friday night,” he says.”Now they finish a field and then go golfing.”

Ritual, a foundation of fraternal structure, may also be to blame. The Moose once held local and national competitions to judge leaders on how they conducted the induction ceremony.”That’s been discontinued,” says Allen. Rather than memorizing the Elks’ complex initiation ritual, new members just rely on past officials to conduct the rites, Van Osdel says. Younger members don’t feel they have time for such endeavors.

And the secrecy — once a necessary part of the society — now has negative connotations for some people. Secrecy is considered an evil in American society: think Watergate. But Paul Harens, past deputy of South Dakota’s Knights of Columbus, defends the secrecy of its rituals. He says the purpose is simply to give new Knights a learning experience. And Harens says secrets are part of life.”I’m not invited to board meetings in banks,” he says.

South Dakota will suffer if fraternal orders fade away. The Masons hold clinics for children with speech and language disorders and conduct a program to help protect children at risk. The Knights of Columbus contribute significantly to Special Olympics. The Lions are known for the Eye Bank, Kiwanians support numerous youth projects and the Elks contribute to the Children’s Hospital and School in Sioux Falls, among other things. Most fraternal orders offer college scholarships.

Fortunately, some organizations are successfully adapting. More men are joining the Knights of Columbus, in part because of family-oriented activities like potlucks and, in Yankton, a monthly breakfast. And after the 2002 low, the classes in the Scottish Rite have remained relatively steady at about 20 new members a year.”I have faith that many of the younger generation, beyond the baby boomers, will become more interested in joining organizations,” says Virgil Andersen, Deputy Grand Master of Masons in South Dakota.

And the secrecy?”We’ve become less secretive,” says Holcomb.”About the only thing I can’t tell you are three passwords, and you can probably get them on the Internet.”

Nevertheless, as I left the lodge I felt like an anthropological adventurer who witnessed an unheard-of ritual. The feeling continued until the very next morning when I opened the Yankton Daily Press & Dakotan and found a lengthy, front-page story and photo of the Scottish Rite investiture I’d just attended. Secret societies aren’t what they used to be.

Editor’s Note: This story is revised from the January/February 2008 issue of South Dakota Magazine. To order a copy or to subscribe, call (800) 456-5117.

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The Hunter’s New Friend

Hunting can try your patience, especially when the prized buck you’ve been tracking disappears for the rest of the season. But the sport shouldn’t be frustrating simply because you can’t keep your gear straight.

Bill Conkling is a Yankton realtor and avid archery hunter who contemplated that very problem one day in his deer blind.”I was sitting there trying to manage all my equipment — my bow, binoculars, range finder. I was frustrated with not having a way to organize it all.”

That night he started sketching, and soon he had a prototype for what he calls the Ground Blind Buddy.”Most hunters have their rifle or bow, a range finder, a game call, water, cell phone. This is an adjustable stand with a tray. There’s a hook for your bow and another for a backpack. You can set your binoculars, range finder and other items on top so they are easily within reach. You don’t have to be digging through clothes to find them.”

Conkling’s idea originated several years ago, but was pushed to the back burner. His original prototype was metal, but research showed the best option would be high density plastic, which meant making molds would be much more expensive. Then last spring he spoke at Yankton’s 1 Million Cups, a weekly gathering that allows area entrepreneurs a chance to talk about their work. A local businessman liked the concept and offered to help Conkling launch a Kickstarter fundraising campaign to move the Ground Blind Buddy into production.”For a while I just wasn’t sure what to do,” Conkling says.”Now it’s like I’ve got my second wind.”

Editor’s Note: This story is revised from the September/October 2015 issue of South Dakota Magazine. To order a copy or to subscribe, call (800) 456-5117.

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Pedaling South Dakota

Carl and Jan Brush of Yankton are loyal readers of our magazine, and avid bicyclists. This summer they are combining those two loves on a cross-country trip, using past issues and articles to guide them to interesting people and places. The Brushes have cycled in all 50 states.”But we like South Dakota best!” says Jan. They intend to travel about 360 miles in the next eight days. They’ve agreed to post some reports from the road so we can go along.

DAY ONE: German Cuisine and a Stone Church

We took off from Yankton Sunday morning. We met Ella Berth and Edna Kalubt near the old stone church south of Menno. They told us that Albert Gunderson split the stones with help from an inmate and the congregation in 1935. The church still has services on Wednesday evenings.

In Menno it started to rain so we parked the trike out of the weather at the school and visited the Open Door Cafe for lunch. Great food! We met owners Jerome and Rita Hoff. Rita was proud to point out the framed pages from South Dakota Magazine, Sep/Oct 2011, featuring their German meals that are still served every Tuesday. Rita mentioned the sign above her. It was made by Jerry Buum who passed away young. His widow, Vicky works at Yankton’s Hy-Vee bakery. The Elvis shirt is an antique, collected by Rita’s daughter-in-law.

Overall it was a great ride. We stayed dry. 51 miles total. We saw lots of wildlife. Everyone waved and a herd of horses greeted us west of Freeman at the Jonas farm and ran alongside us for 100 yards inside their pen. We love cycling in South Dakota!

Note: We ride a tandem recumbent trike. It is a 27 speed and is 10 ft long. The brand is Terra Trike, built in Michigan.

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A Walk in the Cemetery

The Yankton Community Library and the Dakota Territorial Museum hosted their annual Cemetery Walk through the Yankton Municipal Cemetery Tuesday night. The tour included stops at the graves of six characters from Yankton’s history, where re-enactors shared biographical details and anecdotes from their lives on the frontier. The walk is a fundraiser for the museum. Photos by John Andrews.

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Sprucing Up

Cell phone coverage is better and towers are prettier thanks to a product manufactured at Ehresmann Engineering near Yankton. Their monopine, a tree lookalike, camouflages cell towers and conceals antennas.

“It’s still a fight to get towers into areas where they’re needed. People don’t like them in their backyards,” says Eric Taylor, Ehresmann Engineering’s business development manager.

Monopines range in size from 50 to 150 feet tall, but the company’s tallest (180 feet) stands in Vancouver, Canada. Each faux pine tree includes a steel base and injection molded plastic branches that allow phone signals to transmit freely. A hard epoxy forms the bark.”We spread that on, imprint a pattern and hand paint it,” Taylor says.”Think of sponge painting on a bigger scale.”

Ehresmann Engineering’s small factory of 50 employees builds around 15 faux pine trees a year. They hope to do more as demand increases and stricter zoning laws are put into effect. Their other concealment products include monopalms (faux palm trees), flagpoles, light poles and enormous crosses.

Editor’s Note: This story is revised from the May/June 2015 issue of South Dakota Magazine. To order a copy or to subscribe, call (800) 456-5117.