“Ham it up, ya gotta ham it up,
if ya hope ta get by!
Ham it up, ya gotta ham it up,
ta have a home in our sty!
— “Ham it Up,” John Jacobson and John Higgins

ROUND LAKE — It had been hard enough to get this darn song out of my head earlier this month. My second-grade daughter was preparing with the rest of her classmates for the presentation of their short musical play “E-I-E-I oops!” and was regularly belting out this tune around the house.

In the key role of Mrs. Old MacDonald, Grace had no shortage of enthusiasm, which I suppose given the proper perspective would have made “Ham it Up” less fever-inducing than it sometimes was.

So it was somehow appropriate that, in the midst of this theatrical bovine bonanza, Daily Globe reporter and “Today’s Farm” editor Julie Buntjer asked if I would write a column about a tour of an area hog farm. I couldn’t help but be “all-in” — if I was going to be hearing about pigs day and night at home, I might as well expose myself to the real deal at the same time.

Actually, there is a bit more to this than merely getting an assignment to pen a pig piece. A few months back — in the publication of our previous “Today’s Farm” — Julie featured a story about New Fashion Pork and the enterprise’s disdain for law changes the Humane Society of the United States (H.S.U.S.) is advocating. Well, to make a long story somewhat short, the article sparked a bunch of letters, both from H.S.U.S. officials and supporters to pork producers around the region.

At some point, a few weeks into the controversy, I got a call from Emily Erickson, New Fashion Pork’s animal well-being and quality assurance manager, inviting me to come out and take a personal tour. I’d visited JBS a few months ago and got to see a good share of that facility, but a hog farm would be an entirely new experience.

“Sure,” I said.

On April 2, I drove out to the Freking Sow Farm, one of nine such operations under New Fashion Pork’s umbrella, in rural Round Lake. Simply entering the place brought a bit of the unexpected.

“Hey Curly!”
“Yeah, Cue?”
“Did you hear the one about the hog with no nose?”
“No! How’d he smell?”
“How’d he smell? … Terrible (laughing, snorting, etc.)
— “Ham It Up”

Emily Erickson met me outside the main door to the farm’s office area and escorted me inside. Almost immediately upon the door’s closure, I heard some kind of air conditioner sound kick on. Emily, without questioning, quickly explained that the air was being purified to ensure no contamination from the outside took place. And, by the way, I would now have to take a shower, she said.

An email sent in advance of my tour had mentioned something about “showering in,” but for whatever reason it didn’t register — perhaps it was because there was nothing added about bringing a towel, change of clothes, etc., as well as the assumption that I certainly couldn’t make a pig farm filthier than it already was.

But sure enough, I was directed to a showering area in which there was everything from soap, shampoo, deodorant, boxers (no briefs) and a clean pair of coveralls waiting for me. I did what I was told and before long was in “Farmer Ryan” mode, ready for whatever sow scenes were in store (not to mention free of any outside germs that could sicken the farm’s pigs).

Except, again to my surprise, I was led to a break room area in which I sat around a table with some New Fashion Pork employees. Emily — along with co-owner Meg Freking, sow farm manager Ben Clarke and sow farm service manager Kerri Hopkins — proceeded to present information and answer some likely silly questions in what I’d describe as a “Pig Farming for Dummies” session. Naturally, I was the dummy, but the New Fashion Pork folks never made feel like an agriculturally ignorant buffoon. They were gracious hosts and willing to impart any knowledge they could on this city boy from New York.

“Hey Curly!”
“Yeah, Cue?”
“I lost my baby pig!”
“That’s awful! Why don’t you put an ad in the paper?”
“Don’t be silly … he can’t read!” (laughing, snorting, etc.)
— “Ham It Up”

I can’t help but feel — at least from my standpoint — that some of the things I learned at the farm that morning could fill a number of the “Fascinating Facts” spaces we used to feature. For instance, the gestation period for a pig is three months, three weeks and three days. Who knew? And a sow’s litter subsequently can include anywhere from 12 to 18 babies, and the sows are bred twice a year and commonly have in the neighborhood of seven litters. (So, I marveled, these sows are the moms of an average of 84 children? They must be Catholic, I joked to some laughter.)

At the New Fashion Pork sow farm I visited, the baby pigs are born (“farrowed”) and weaned; they are then moved to nursery sites at about 21 days of age. Each litter is kept together in a pen until the pigs are around five weeks old, at which point they are split out and moved to finishing sites at one of two outside locations. At this point, each pig weighs about 50 pounds. When they go to market — at the age of five months — they’ve grown to 260 pounds.

It seems as if there were enough pig-related statistics given to me, in fact, to fill a miniature Guinness book. Among some of the others: 1,000 pigs at the farm site I visited leave each week for finishing sites; a total of 1.2 million pigs are sent to harvest plants company-wide over the course of the year (New Fashion Pork has five sow farms); and Minnesota’s pork production annually generates $6.7 billion in the state economy and creates an estimated 55,100 jobs. I am able to glean such data thanks to a handy-dandy, two-sided piece of paper titled “Oink Outings” that was provided to me. I’m hoping I can order my own subscription.

“We’re a family of silly sows,
people would say I’m a ham! Oink! Oink!
Acting worse than a herd of cows.
Come on y’all, let’s jam!
— “Ham It Up”

Later, as we toured some of the barns at the farm, I have to admit the entire experience was more educational and interesting than I imagined. It’s next to impossible to cover it all, though I’ve got to single out the sows’ protection of their young (the moms show they’re threatened if you walk directly in front of their line of sight) as one source of intrigue. It made plenty of sense that New Fashion Pork also produces its own feed for its pigs — there are many varieties based on different ages/stages. I also didn’t know there was a “pecking order” for pigs, too, though I suppose this shouldn’t be a stunning revelation. Pigs apparently always line up in the same order to eat, which I guess was so fascinating if only because my own young children often fight about where they’re going to sit at the dinner table.

That pecking order, though, can come into play in a negative way when two pigs from different litters are put together in the same pen. The way pigs are housed is at the heart of a national controversy that has seen the HSUS push to remove individual sow houses and, instead, have them gestate together in a pen setting. But, at least from what I observed, this can lead to one pig attacking another, and New Fashion Pork showed me an actual example of one pig that had been wounded by another after being placed in the same pen. Clearly, this isn’t safe for the pigs, never mind the individuals working with them.

I can by no means pretend to be an expert on pig farming based on a couple of hours at a hog farm but, from what I saw, the New Fashion Pork folks clearly had the interest of the pigs as their top priority at all times.

“Well,” one might argue, “if that was really true, why would they be raised for eventual slaughter in the first place?”

While that’s clearly a point that can never be fully refuted, I guess my take on that is at least the pigs are given the best attention, treatment and care possible while at the facility, and that fact is a better alternative than a bunch of wild pigs running around. Or, I would imagine if pigs and humans switched places, the swine would probably harvest the people.

Either way, I came away from the time at the farm with a new perspective and sense of knowledge, all while still having that mildly annoying “Ham It Up,” song in my head.

On Tuesday night, while going back and forth on my iPad between the Twins’ game and Facebook, I saw that one of my Facebook friends had shared a new cartoon from The New Yorker. It was a rendering of a man and, presumably, his young daughter, both wearing New York Yankee caps and T-shirts emblazoned with a “B.” The caption read, “Yes, we like the Yankees, but today we’re all rooting for Boston.”

I’m neither a Yankees or a Red Sox fan, but I do love the city of Boston. Of course, anyone’s affection (or lack thereof) for that city means nothing in the aftermath of Monday’s bombings at the finish line of the Boston Marathon. What happened earlier this week was something that probably shocked many of us in the same way 9-11 did. Yes, the loss of life was far, far less this week, and the devastation nowhere near the same category, but what came into mind once again was the evil specter of terrorism.

I was last in Boston in 2005, when Becca and I went there for a day trip. She had never been, and we walked a majority of the Freedom Trail in very hot and muggy conditions. We also went to Cambridge, where we toured some of the grounds of Harvard, and later sat on a bench to watch the ducks — recalling the famous children’s book “Make Way for Ducklings” — in Boston Common. There was not enough time, unfortunately, to head into Beacon Hill, my favorite Boston neighborhood and a place that can’t help transport you into an early 20th-century vibe with its cobblestone streets, brick townhouses and gas-burning streetlights. The first time I visited Beacon Hill, I wanted to live there. Then I saw the price of its real estate.

There’s history seemingly everywhere in Boston, and that’s why I’ve long held it in such high esteem. I suppose that’s also the reason it might appeal to some deranged person as an ideal spot for a bombing. After all, it’s the home of Paul Revere’s midnight ride, which helped lead to the birth of our great nation. It’s also a big and often-crowded city with many narrow, confusing, difficult-to-navigate streets (I would much rather drive in New York City than in Boston), which I guess could contribute to its potential allure as a place to cause mass hysteria and horror.

This speculation, though, doesn’t answer any questions as to why Monday’s bombings happened. All I know is that one week, we’re praying for our own safety in the midst of horrible winter weather, and the next we’re praying for a city and an entire country. Talk about perspective.

My two young children have never been to Boston, but I certainly hope to take them someday and do things my wife and I did there — and more. I suppose there will someday be a monument or structure recalling what took place Monday, and that would be a destination as well.

I look forward to that trip, whenever it happens. Boston is and will always remain a must-see city, and no crazed individual with whatever agenda he or she has can change that.

I’d like to say it was for my 8th birthday that I received a present that would eventually consume several hours of my life. I already was a huge baseball fan, and could answer all kinds of trivia questions about the sport’s history and recite batting averages of New York Yankees’ players (my allegiance to the Yankees ended before I reached 13) at an almost up-to-the-minute clip. I may have already shown signs of a lack of playing ability at the age — particularly at the plate — but as far as having a mind for numbers and stats, I don’t think I would understate it if I said I was a prodigy of sorts.

So, when I unwrapped the box containing a board game called “Superstar Baseball,” I had a feeling it was going to be something special. I remember playing for the first time with, of all people, my dad’s friend’s girlfriend. It was simple to figure out, and though I don’t think it started right away the game ultimately became something akin to an obsession.

“Superstar Baseball,” which was created by Sports Illustrated (and long out of circulation), was played in the format of an American League/National League all-star game. There were probably between 40 and 50 historically great players assigned to each league. (Some, of course, played in both leagues, and were assigned to the league in which they spent the most time). The names ran the gamut of all the sport’s eras, as players dating as far back as Cy Young, Christy Mathewson and awesomely nicknamed Frank “Home Run” Baker, who hit an underwhelming-by-today’s-standards 96 home runs in a career spanning from 1908 to 1922, were included along with then-current stars like Pete Rose, Reggie Jackson, Joe Morgan, Carl Yastrzemski and others.

I would be remiss in saying that the inclusion — and exclusion — of players in what my brother Ian and I, not to mention many friends simply deemed “Superstar” was continually a subject of debate. The biggest, way-over-the-top omission was none other than Joe DiMaggio. Even if a Red Sox fan created the game, how could the Yankee Clipper be excluded? The fact that National League slugger Ralph Kiner was left out was also a sore spot for some of us, particularly those who loved listening to him on New York Mets’ TV and radio broadcasts. And there were more than a few players that were in the game that we’d never heard of.

Still, we played with the players we had (though a friend created cards for DiMaggio and Kiner that we did use). The playing was done with three dice. The team pitching would roll first, with a total — checked on the pitcher’s card — either resulting in an “automatic out” (depending on how good his team’s combined defensive rating was), a walk/strikeout/other form of out or a swing, which afforded the opportunity for the team hitting to take a turn. The hitter’s roll of the dice would then be checked on the card of whoever was up (I can still remember various results on Babe Ruth’s card) to determine what happened.

Yes, a lot of the game was luck of the dice, but there was strategy, too. In addition to defensive ratings, players were rated on speed and bunting ability, which allowed for nuances such as stealing bases, scoring from second on a single, successfully tagging up on a fly ball, or simply executing a sacrifice bunt or a suicide squeeze. Needless to say, not only could one employ different strategies, but one could also keep track of statistics galore — which, sadly, I did over the course of multiple games over a several-month period one year.

Unfortunately, I think “Superstar” was lost during one of any number of relocations that have taken place over the years. I should note that my fascination with this game ultimately led to another pre-occupation — this time with Strat-A-Matic Baseball, which I played during my college years. It’s probably safe to say that affection for Strat wasn’t exactly a plus in trying to win affection from the opposite gender.

I’ve been thinking lately of going on eBay to see if I could find a “Superstar Baseball” to purchase and subsequently teach my kids to play. But why would they want to roll dice, for instance, when they can play baseball on the Wii, or play on the iPad or — here’s an idea — play outside? They’d probably last about five minutes with my old favorite before ditching me.

Well, that’s fine. But I think I still may have to find the game anew, if only for Ian and I to play it on a very occasional basis. Many, many years from baseball, instead of playing cards in a nursing home somewhere, we’ll be able to gladly roll the dice.

I still have very distinct memories of the day I got dropped off at the college. After bringing all my belongings to my dorm room, we went out to lunch before I was returned to the university’s primary entrance point and left to my own devices — to head back, on my own, to my room and the start of my new life.

Little did I know that my newly acquired keys had fallen out of my shorts pocket and remained in the car. This I discovered after wandering around campus aimlessly trying to relocate my new dorm. Needless to say, there were a few people questioning my readiness for college at that point.

I was reminded of that semi-traumatic experience this past weekend when I joined my good friend Jim — who lives in a New Jersey community just outside of New York City — and his soon-to-be-college-bound son, Tommy, for a few hours in Madison, Wis. Tommy is considering attending the University of Wisconsin this coming fall; Ohio State University, the University of Michigan and Miami of Ohio are other places he and his dad had visited or were checking out on their trip. Where he goes at this point seems to depend more on financial aid and the potential receipt of a very generous scholarship rather than where he gets accepted, though he was disappointed to learn this week that he didn’t get into Northwestern.

I left for Madison Friday morning and got there about 1:30 or so, checking into my room at the not-exactly-luxurious-but-all-I-really-need Red Roof Inn. The small lobby — simply the front desk and a couch on which to sit and watch Ricki Lake’s talk show — paled in comparison to the large open space, sliding glass doors and nearby indoor pool of Jim’s hotel directly across the parking lot, plus my key card wouldn’t work right away. But my room was much cheaper, so there.

Jim and Tommy showed up soon afterward, and it wasn’t long before we were heading into central Madison to check out the campus scene. I found it humorous that Jim continued to plug in destinations as close as three blocks away on his GPS throughout the day, but I would eventually learn the wisdom of his ways. Before long, we were sitting at an establishment called Vintage Spirits and Grill, having tasty eats and some more-than-respectable beers that I’m quite confident were brewed locally.

While eating and watching “March Madness,” we couldn’t help but people-watch a bit, and it was a semi-eclectic crowd comprised of college folk and those who, well, seemed of a slightly different ilk. The bar area was quite crowded, but given it was mid-afternoon, no one was over in a separate area of at least a dozen booths, so we sat there by ourselves for a while until a couple of attractive college-age females came in and sat in the booth directly behind us. Tommy and I couldn’t help but notice — Jim must have been absorbed in college basketball — that at one point, the young ladies’ conversation centered on one of the two’s lament of too many one-night stands. Needless to say, if Tommy ends up choosing Wisconsin, I will have to ask how much that factored into the equation.

Later, upon leaving the premises, Jim encountered a multi-tattooed woman while paying the bill. Prominent in all the ink was a rendering of John Lennon, and Jim quite innocently, I’m sure — commented that he liked it. Moments later, she was lifting her shirt to show more ink, including lyrics to a Beatles song we never got the name of. (I’m guessing it wasn’t “I Want to Hold Your Hand.”) She didn’t go beyond the realm of decency, but it was still a little more than what we bargained for after simply looking for food and basketball.

We went on to tour the campus some, including a stop at the Wisconsin School of Business, which Tommy would enroll in should be become a Badger. We saw very few people inside — it was a late Friday afternoon, after all — but we did see a woman apparently having a long conversation with her self while staring directly at a large photo display. We weren’t sure if she was practicing some sort of demonstration or what, but I couldn’t help but caution Tommy to be mindful of what could happen if he studied too much while attending the University of Wisconsin.

We also saw the house where Tommy would live in if he gets the aforementioned scholarship, and since very few people seemed to be home, we just kind of walked around. It felt odd to seemingly have this big campus residence all to ourselves. Then, after just a bit more exploring, we went back to the hotel to watch more college basketball.

We went our separate ways early Saturday morning — Jim and Tommy off to Michigan and me into the city to have a cup of coffee at the downtown Fair Trade Coffee House (after which I proceeded to get all turned around thanks to multiple one-way streets. GPS, next time, please?). Then, it was home back home to Worthington. Thankfully, I had remembered my keys to get back into the house.

Kayla Strayer may have only been a Daily Globe reporter for a couple of short months before leaving for a TV station in Grand Forks, N.D., that’s also owned by Forum Communications Co. But she did leave behind something that’s made a mark — in the McGaughey household, anyway.

Not long before Kayla told me she was taking the Grand Forks job (she’s doing on-air work up there), I was telling her about how my family rented a Wii game system over a rainy weekend and loved it. Kayla then said she had a Wii she rarely used, and then asked if I wanted it. I said, “Well, sure, I’d be happy to buy it from you,” but really didn’t think a lot about the conversation afterward.

Well, the day Kayla gave notice, she did two things while in my office. First, she gave the bad news. Second, she gave me the Wii system as a “peace offering” — I believe those were her words at the time. She didn’t want any money for it, she insisted; she merely wanted it to be in the hands of a family who would use it and enjoy it.

Needless to say, this has been a great and unexpected gift for all of us. At first, Becca and I debated whether or not we would wait until Christmas to surprise the kids with the Wii, but some blah day eventually came around and we decided, “the heck with it.” I think we’d already used the Wii once or twice already on the pretense that Kayla had loaned it to us. Finally, we decided to say it was a gift … so we went out and bought a couple of games to own and play whenever we liked.

The two games that have gotten easily the most use are Wii Sports and Wii Just Dance For Kids. We have some others, including a Mario and a Mater’s Tall Tales, but the time spent on those is nowhere near comparable.

Grace, who loves dancing and is in her third year of lessons at Kay Williams Prunty’s The Dance Academy, takes it pretty seriously on the Wii and loves to score as many points as possible. She has her favorites, and can perform the Wiggles’ “Do the Monkey” darn near perfectly. Zach, who doesn’t take his dancing (nor much of anything, for that matter) seriously, nevertheless loves the Smash Mouth tune “All Star” as well as “Who Let the Dogs Out.” The latter, which I’ve seen G and Z do in tandem, is a tour de force of hoofin’ hilarity.

The Wii Sports game has gotten even more use than its dance counterpart. Most played, easily, are bowling and golf, of which Zach is a huge fan and Grace seems to be getting a bit more interested in. On the lanes, it must be said that Grace is probably the most consistent when it comes to scores; I can bowl 200 and then 130, for instance, while Grace will usually get in the 170 to 180 range every time. The Z Man, on the other hand, is wildly inconsistent, probably because his attention span in the game is all over the place. If he could concentrate for 10 entire frames on what he’s doing, he’d be amazing. But besides intentionally rolling the ball backward toward the audience, and doing a throwing motion repeatedly before letting the ball go (I compare it to the Flinstones’ characters running in place before they actually start going anywhere), his efforts are filled with highs and lows — and, of course, a laugh or two.

We recently discovered some additional holes in the golf game that we’d not tried before, and they seem to get progressively difficult. The last of nine holes features, I think, five different islands — in real life, does a golfer take a small helicopter to each? — and all of us have put many a shot in the drink. But there have been memorable shots over the last several weeks, including a Zach chip-in eagle (I think I was more euphoric than he was).

So, Kayla, even though I’m sure I thanked you for the Wii when you gave it to us, consider this another expression of gratitude. We — Wii — absolutely love it.

According to USA Today, 1,223 high schools across the nation have the Eagle as their mascot. There’s two right in our backyard, of course — Windom Area and Southwest Christian.

But while it’s interesting knowing just how common the mascot “Eagles” is — and by the way, “Tigers” checks in at No. 2 with 876 schools — it’s far more intriguing to know some of the more unusual, colorful monikers for teams. And there are plenty of good ones, as can been now be seen by visiting http://contest.usatodayhss.com/mascot/state-map.

Thanks to a contest that kicked off Feb.25, readers can select their favorite team mascot names on a state-by-state basis. A total of 255 teams are on the list — five from each of the 50 U.S. states as well as the District of Columbia. Participants can vote for up to one team per state.
Aaron Hagen shared this with me Feb. 26, and it was fun trying to guess if schools I knew had intriguing mascot names made the list. Having lived in New York, Pennsylvania, North Dakota and Minnesota at different times — and, of course, being in pretty close proximity to Iowa — I had a little bit of knowledge to draw on.

North Dakota, I’ve always thought, has a wealth of great team nicknames, and some of my favorites are on the list. Grafton’s Spoilers made the cut; so did Kenmare’s Honkers. Somewhat disappointingly, New Salem’s Holsteins didn’t qualify.

When reviewing New York’s entries, I first inquired if Fredonia’s Hillbillies made the Empire State’s top five. Sure enough, it did — and I feel it would have been a grave injustice if it hadn’t. Another school on the N.Y. list was Warrensburg High School. The sports teams there were known as the Burgers when I grew up about 45 minutes south of there, but now the team mascot is apparently the Burghermeister (“realizing a burger wasn’t quite striking fear into opposing sports teams,” USA Today notes.

So what Minnesota and Iowa teams do voters get to choose from? Well, one Minnesota school was an easy one — the Blooming Prairie Awesome Blossoms. And I’ve always kind of dug the Jordan Hubmen, which is on the list. Meanwhile, Iowa is well represented by Sheldon’s Orabs, which according to the contest “was once named the worse mascot name ever by the Des Moines Register.” Also on the slate is the Estherville-Lincoln Central Midgets (but, strangely, the Dickinson, N.D., Midgets were excluded.)

The contest’s state round ended March 5, with the top 51 winners moving on to a round in which they will be divided into six regions. Each regional winner will then advance to a final round.

I’ll be looking forward to seeing the lists of finalists, as I’m sure they’ll bring cause for great debate in the newsroom. Even if they don’t win, though, I’ll always be a Hillbillies fan.

Last Saturday, I worked harder than I do at the Globe — from a physical standpoint, anyway — to remove an excess of ice from our sidewalk and driveway at home. It was a job I should have done a couple of days earlier, and ultimately completed for the primary purposes of: a) avoiding an awful fall; and b) clearing things before the next deluge of freezing rain and snow supposedly arriving within the next few hours.

I have never been a huge fan of winter, even though I’ve lived my whole life in places with four distinct seasons. I don’t mind snow too badly, and I can even deal with bitterly cold temperatures, but it’s dealing with excess snow and especially ice removal that’s not enjoyable. My wife, I’m sure, would be quick to point out my ongoing struggles with our snowblower, and I would quickly add that I’d much rather blow snow then chop ice if given the choice.

Naturally, the kids don’t share my lack of enthusiasm for winter, though they are both eager to embrace what the outside promises come springtime. Last weekend, Grace donned her snowpants and essentially rolled around in what little white stuff remained on our lawn. Then, ironically, she got bored with that and — given the lack of snow and ice on most sidewalks — went rollerblading around the neighborhood.

Zach, for his part, seems to like making a game of living as dangerously on the ice as he possibly can. He’s had a couple of good wipeouts this winter (fortunately nothing serious) yet remains undeterred from running and even offering an occasional dance step on slippery surfaces. He, as well as Grace, also seems to have an affinity for hockey — my least favorite of what I’d call the major sports.

Both of the kids had asked off and on for weeks if I’d take them to a hockey game (they apparently knew they’d have a much better chance of that happening with me than with their mom). Finally, a couple of weeks ago, I escorted them to a Saturday afternoon matinee of the Trojan boys’ hockey team, and they both seemed to really enjoy it.
Probably the biggest draw to hockey for both Grace and Zach is that we know one of the Trojan players, backup goalie Alex Purdy. Of course, the kids were a tad disappointed when Alex never got into the game we attended, but they each moved on to other sources of amusement. For Grace, it was hanging out with Alex’s sister, who is her age; Zach, meanwhile, played with a pre-school classmate while occasionally stopping to check out the action.

And the action was definitely attention-grabbing in the intermission between the first and second periods. That’s when the Mini-Mites — I believe these are the youngest kids in Worthington’s youth hockey program — took the ice for a brief exhibition. Even I must admit the “game” was fun to watch, and there was definitely some skating going on. We can only hope those good skaters only get better and better as they move up the ranks and potentially make the WHS program stronger.

A few days later, shortly before the kids’ bedtime, I was looking for something to watch on TV and came across the Minnesota Wild-Nashville Predators game. “Hockey!” each of them yelled delightedly. Do we have a couple of future wingers, goalies or defensemen in our midst?

I don’t know, but it is clear that hockey has a healthy following in Worthington. A few days ago, Tracie Luinenburg, one of my son’s teachers at Hi-Ho, emailed me a photo of her son’s Mites team. I know we’ve had a lot of things about different Worthington youth hockey squads in the sports section (lots of Pee Wee scores, for starters), but Tracie told me these kids would just love to see their team picture — taken last month at a tournament in Brookings, S.D. — in the paper. So I’m putting it in, and I’m guessing Grace will point out which kids she knows when she sees it, and perhaps even ask about playing.

While I have nothing against the sport, there’s one significant obstacle to me becoming a hockey dad: I think I’d really need to learn how to skate. Perhaps I can practice in my driveway.

I think I was entering my senior year in high school when I was strongly recruited by some friends to be in a play. Someone — I’m not sure who — had to drop out of a production of “Harvey,” and I was asked to consider filling in.

While I couldn’t help but be flattered by my peers wanting me to take the stage with them, there was no way I could accept their request. For one thing, learning lines and assuming the role of a character, and then performing in front of a group of people, was pretty much a non-starter at that point of my life. The fact that I also had to kiss a girl in this show was also a severe hindrance. At that juncture of my adolescence, any kissing or romance was only a little less imaginary then the rabbit at the center of “Harvey”’s plot.

It was my sophomore year of college when, thanks to some friends, I wound auditioning for and getting a part in a play called “Lovers and Other Strangers.” I played a man who, along with his wife, has to tell his parents they’re getting divorced. (Off stage, much to my chagrin, I had about as much chance at getting together with her as my husband character did.) Nevertheless, the show was fun, and I must have done OK because I was told to continue to try out for future shows.

Looking back, my theatrical debut wasn’t all that terrifying, but I also don’t think I had a very challenging — or significant — part to play. It was, in short, nothing compared to some of the outstanding performances pulled off Thursday through Sunday in the Worthington High School production of “Hairspray.”

So many people did a wonderful job in the show, but I can’t help but keep coming back to one individual who made a remarkable impression on me — Caleb Dirksen.
I’d worked with Caleb, who seems like he should be well beyond the age of someone who’s a senior in high school — during the summer 2012 production of “Beauty and the Beast.” Caleb played the role of Lefou, the goofy, oafish minion of Gaston, and he threw himself completely in the part of a buffoon. I couldn’t help but think to myself, “Here’s a guy who isn’t afraid to look silly on stage,” and it showed in his performance.

This past weekend, Caleb came up even bigger. After all, how many high-school-senior males would want to don a fat suit AND dress in drag for a play? In the role of Edna Turnblad, Caleb camped it up big-time and held nothing back. There’s no way I could’ve taken that role when I was in his age — heck, I couldn’t take it now.

Of course, there were so many other great performances in “Hairspray,” too. Perhaps even greater than the individuals — on stage and behind the scenes — involved in the production, though, was the show’s overall message. As the heroine, Tracy Turnblad, and friends fight to get non-whites included on an “American Bandstand”-style TV program, and the importance of celebrating diversity and individual uniqueness is constantly stressed. What an absolutely awesome message for a group of Worthington High School students to convey!

I’m not sure if or when I’ll take a stage again — it can require a lot of time and work, and I’ve got a lot of other things on my plate. Perhaps, someday, I’ll sit in an audience with wife and laugh, smile and be proud at Grace or Zachary doing something outlandish, moving or both. (Zach, with his propensity for creating his own version of Tom Cruise’s famous living room dance in “Risky Business,” seems like the likeliest candidate). Both of them, I can’t help but think, might just have it in ’em.

But for now, I’ll look back on the just-wrapped-up production of “Hairspray” and give a massive thumbs-up.

I could write another blog about the exploits of my two children — quite a few people tell me they like them — but I’m going to take a break from that this time.

I could quickly fire off a few paragraphs on something sports-related, but I surmise those jottings have a little more limited audience.

Instead, this edition of “Tales from the Chief” will be, in essence, “Tales from the Chief’s Cousins.” After all, what Dave and Ray have been experiencing over the last several days is a once-in-a-lifetime adventure.

Rather than try to paraphrase their story, I’ll simply give it to you from their blog, “Brothers Unite.”

We were planning on going on vacation for a long time. It’s a big year for our family — Dad is turning 70, Mom is turning 35 (this is humor), I am graduating from college and Ray is still living at home.

When I heard vacation I started imagining far away and exotic places — Italy, Argentina, Denmark. Maybe even Costa Rica. While off at school I didn’t really pay much attention to the process of figuring out where to go. When Mom said we had decided I was excited to hear — which beach? What mountains?

Dave, we’ve figured out where we’re going for vacation. It’s all decided. Great Mom, where to? The Caribbean? Argentina? No, even better. We’re going to Egypt!

Last I checked an angry Egyptian mob was storming the Presidential Palace. Egypt? Isn’t Egypt like … on fire?

I’ll skip ahead a bit, if only because there’s plenty of text — not to mention many wonderful photos — in this blog. But needless to say, the portrait of Egypt painted in this essay is not representative of a nation consumed by upheaval.

It didn’t take long for us to realize how wrong the portrayal of Cairo in the American media was. This is not a place at war. This is not a place where social systems are collapsing, where foreigners are constantly in danger. We stopped saying we were from Toronto by the second day. Cairo is a city — a huge city, a poor city, but a city nonetheless. People here are focused on their lives. Work, futbol, tea and now politics. People are excited to see us, happy that tourists are coming back. We quickly rediscovered the thrill of a communication that transcends words —body language, tone, motions. … God is good.

OK, maybe Cairo isn’t such a scary, dangerous place after all. Consider this, though:
Cairo is a time capsule. It is a tapestry of histories and cultures. Once a town of hundreds on the east bank of the Nile, the city’s population now exceeds 20 million. There are only a handful of traffic lights in the whole city. No one pays attention to them.

Sounds like it might be a tad dangerous in a different sense. Still, there are those pyramids.

With heights exceeding 130 meters, the great pyramids are evidence of timeless human ingenuity. We climbed inside them and walked around. The entire time I was awestruck. They are truly magnificent. ..

Egypt’s place in our collective cultural history remains immortal. Seeing these constructions and visualizing the people who made them over 4,000 years ago an experience of the community of human greatness.

There’s more — plenty more — to be read and seen, should you be interested. Check it all out at mcgaugheybrothers.blogspot.com.

Next time, a return to your regular “Tales.”

Another National Football League regular season is in the books, and all in all it was a good one as far as I’m concerned.

Sure, the New York Giants didn’t make the playoffs, which is definitely a disappointment.But two things must be said here. First, as each season passes, I tend to follow the Giants a little bit less than the previous year — although I did take great pleasure in last year’s Super Bowl run, I suppose. And, secondly, it’s not just the Giants I follow less with each year. I can attest to not watching a full football game, from opening kickoff to final whistle, this entire season. When you have two young kids, a wife, responsibilities in a home you own and a busy job, where’s the time for a three-hour-plus football game?

But — I still read about football, in newspapers and online, to keep track of which players and which teams are doing well. Those are musts if I’m going to be competitive in fantasy football (which I rarely am) and my annual weekly wager with a buddy back east.

I’m pretty confident that I’ve written before about what my friend, Jim, and I simply call “The Bet.” Each week, over the course of the entire NFL 17-week regular season, we pick — using established Las Vegas point spreads — our winners of the games. The sum of the bet has stayed the same for more than a decade, but let’s just say the amount has gone from a small stipend of a few bucks to a total that, while not exactly back-breaking for the loser, is quite a bit more meaningful.

This season marked the 21st year of The Bet, and it went down the wire. I had a two-game lead on Jim going into the final week, thanks to a pretty respectable won-loss record of 125-115 vs. the points. Jim, though, was determined to make the final week interesting, as we ended up having eight “differences” (games in which have a different team covering the spread).

Five of the differences were in the early games, and I was well aware that with a two-game edge, wining four of those five differences would clinch this year’s Bet. Jim actually picked against the Giants for the first time all year — even though he was going to the game in-person (not actually a bad pick for a team that had been horrible the last couple of weeks yet was still favored, somehow, by eight and a half points), but that contest ended up in a 42-7 NYG rout of the Eagles. Each of the other five games, though, remained more or less in doubt to the end.

The Steelers, favored by 6 1/2 points over the Browns, led by seven for a good chunk of the second half, then got a late TD to record a 24-10 win over the Browns. That was difference number two in my column. The next of the key games to end was Houston and Indianapolis, and that went Jim’s way as the Colts earned a 28-16 triumph despite being 4 1/2-point underdogs. Wins by the Bengals (3 1/2-point favorites over the Ravens) and the Panthers (4 1/2-point ’dogs against the Saints), however, clinched a check coming way from New Jersey — a good thing, since I hate coming out on the wrong side of The Bet two years in a row.

Come next fall, there is a pretty decent chance that Jim’s son will be entering his freshman year at the University of Wisconsin in Madison. I’ve already vowed that, if this happens, I’m going out to attend a Badgers football game and to watch a Bet difference with Jim. But even if this doesn’t happen, I’m certain the annual wager will continue, along with what has become one of most my valued friendship. And that, naturally, is far more important than football.