We just happened on this wonderful story, and it seems like a good one to finish out 2004. Father Stan Maudlin of Blue Cloud Abbey wrote it for the Jan 2005 issue of The Bishop's Bulletin.

Thirty years ago, a young Indian from South Dakota by the name of Billy Mills was an underdog runner in the 1964 Olympics in Tokyo. The experts thought he'd already over-achieved. Here is the story in Father Stan's words:

That October day it was warm enough to stand outside after church. Joe and Glesner Brewer, cousins of Billy, waited for me after church, holding their daughter, Triva, in their arms.

"Father, do you think we could call Tokyo? Billy is there in the Olympics. No one in our family could go be with him. We tried to find the right time for his race to be over. We think we got it right. It would be nice to know how he did."

We called. Glesner did the talking, but after an instant there was from her only bubbling and laughing and screaming from joy. "Oh, Billy, really? You did it? We just came out of church and Father is here, and everybody else. We'll tell everyone."

Then, "What?" And then aside, "Here Triva. Billy wants to talk to you."

I faintly heard Billy's voice. It was full and exultant. "Triva, you know you're my favorite little niece. It was a big crowd, and I wanted to tell you myself that I won."

"Yes, I know that uncle."

"Honey, how could you know that? It was just over a little while ago?"

"I knew you won, uncle, because I prayed for you that you'd win!" She was embarrassed. She turned her face against her mother's cheek. We stood silent. We were sure now. And we knew why.

Perhaps you're weary of year-end lists, but a blog called Mount Blogmore, produced by several Rapid City Journal writers, has the best we've seen. And as with all blogs, there's an opportunity to disagree! Go here to read Mount Blogmore. The list is by Denise Ross, one of South Dakota's best journalists. Of course, she chose John Thune's political victory as the biggest story .... but there are some surprises in her Top Ten.

New Years Eve celebrations put a lot of amateur drinkers/drivers on the road. Remember this grisly, true story from Wagner before you go out on Friday night.

Noel Wiechman of Wagner told us this story a number of years ago. Apparently a van full of people stopped by the local meat locker and got a tub full of intestines for use in holiday sausage making. Then they stopped for a few drinks. Hours later, they headed west before driving in the ditch and rolling the van.

A rookie highway patrolman arrived soon after the crash. He ran to the wreckage, looked in a window, and saw arms and legs of people everywhere, covered with bloody intestines. He fainted on the spot.

When he came to his senses, he rushed to his radio and called for all the ambulances and hearses that could be found in Charles Mix County. By then, however, the passengers were coming to their senses and becoming disentangled with one another and the pork parts. Bruised and cut, but not seriously hurt, they crawled out of the wreckage and awaited the ambulances.

The trooper had the guts to acknowledge that the accident wasn't nearly as serious as it first appeared.

The moral? Don't drive drunk, especially while making sausage.

Ever feel that way? Like those of us still living in the country have become another beleagured, maligned and/or forgotten minority? Kentucky farmer Wendell Berry, one of our favorite authors, has written a wonderful essay on the subject. Here's a link to The Prejudice Against Country People.

We appreciate each of our readers, of course. When you publish a magazine (or a web blog, for that matter) in a sparsely populated place like South Dakota, each and every reader becomes important. We learn their names, and sometimes a lot more than that.

Yesteday I received a letter from a longtime reader. It came in a white envelope with an orange return address that I've come to know. It simply read, "Please change my address to #29473 State Penitentiary, Sioux Falls, S.D. 57117." I don't know the circumstances of our friend's change of scenery, but it's somewhat comforting that he's still tending to the basics of life, like taking care of address changes on his magazines.

We have quite a few readers on "the hill" in Sioux Falls. Our managing editor recently spent some time there (as a visitor), and was surprised to discover how many of the inmates read South Dakota Magazine. He was told that copies mailed to the penitentiary get quite dog-eared, so we've started to send another copy to the prison library.

Of course, the inmates have a lot of time to read, and to think. We occasionally receive letters from them ... some for publication, and others just to say hello.

A few weeks before Christmas, a young man sent us a long order for gift subscriptions. He wanted to send the magazine to about 10 women. It was interesting to see how he wanted us to sign his gift cards: "Brenda, you're unforgettable"; "Linda, I'll never forget that night in Rapid City": "Jeannie, I Often Think Of What We Share": etc., etc. Hopefully he's getting some rest now that he's behind the quartzite walls.

When I was in the legislature, I had several occasions to visit with inmates in Springfield, Sioux Falls and Yankton. When you sit around a table with them, it becomes unnervingly obvious that, but for the grace of God and good luck, any of us could be there: another beer on the wrong day, an error in financial judgement, a too-quick reaction to a bad situation, a lazy moment while dealing with some serious business.

No matter which side of the fence you find yourself as we wind down 2004, please know that we appreciate your interest in our explorations of South Dakota. (Bernie Hunhoff)

In the heat of summer, the Italians, French and Spanish (at least those who can afford it) leave for the sunny beaches. South Dakota is different. We are quite busy in the summers, but after the crop is in and business slows for the year, many people go west to the mountains to unwind on the snowy slopes of the Black Hills. Snowmobiling, skiing, snowboarding, hiking, or just sight-seeing are favorite activities.

Terry Peak and Deer Mountain recently got heavy snows, so conditions will be perfect for the true adventurers. Katie and Ben (from our office) plan to be there this weekend, so we'll have an official report next week.

If you are heading west, here are a few travel tips:

* Naturally, don't miss the big chocolate donuts at Wall Drug, along with 5-cent coffee. But you know that.
* Keep an eye out for Hank Harris in the Deadwood casinoes. He's one of South Dakota's truly fine musicians, and he's apt to be singing solo alongside a new Mustang in some lobby because the slot machines get center stage. But it's part of Hank's unassuming charm. (Read about him in our Nov/Dec issue)
* If you're a movie buff, see the Kevin Costner collection in Midnight Star (which Costner owns) on Deadwood's main street.
* Try to get away from the crowd noise and listen in solitude to the pine trees on the mountaintop. You'll learn what the old songwriters meant by "whispering pines".
* Take an hour or two to see the Journey Museum in Rapid City. It is a world-class facility that hasn't received the attention it deserves in South Dakota.

South Dakotans have mixed feelings about coyotes. We honor them as our state animal, yet many folks loathe their night-time yipping. Ranchers think they're a nuisance. Poets and story-tellers give them larger-than-life qualities (and have for centuries, dating way back in Native American and Spanish cultures.

The coyotes of southeast South Dakota really sing on these cold December mornings. They were howling in grand style this morning, which reminded us of a favorite South Dakota story. A couple we know have a bed and breakfast on their ranch about a half-hour's drive from Murdo. One night, after dark, the motel owner in town called and said a young couple from Chicago were in town and could find no where to stay. "We've got a room," the rancher said, "Send them out."

They arrived about 10 p.m., tired and weary after navigating dusty dark back roads like they'd never seen in the city. As luck would have it, the ranch's yard light had burned out and the rancher hadn't had time to replace the bulb. The young woman in the car was hesitant to get out of the car in the dark. It was so black and scary. Her husband walked to her side and assured her it was safe and that the ranchers were nice people.

Finally, she cautiously stepped from the car. But, just as she did, a pack of coyotes began howling over the hill! She jumped back in the car, locked the doors and refused to budge. She only let her husband in when he promised they'd drive onto Rapid City, three hours to the west.

A friend called about my comment on how rivers seem to breed such characters, and together we recalled some of the people we knew along the James (see previous post). Here are just a few:
The saintly hunter's wife:Three generations of hunters lived near us - an old widower, a man and his wife, and their son. They farmed a little and hunted a lot, regardless of the season. The wife, a very quiet and dignified lady, didn't seem to fit with the others. Yet, she adapted. In the 1960s, the farmwives we knew got most of their groceries from the store. She was the only woman we knew who would take a cottontail rabbit or squirrel from a boy's hand and quickly turn it into a dish fit for a king. But she is most memorable because she used Plaster of Paris to immortalize baby shoes for young parents. When my older brother was killed in a farm accident at about age 3, she took a pair of his tiny shoes and "plastered and painted" them as a gift to mom. The shoes meant a lot to all of us (we kept them on a shelf in the living room), and I often wondered how she could know that?
The trapper:One of our most delightful farm neighbors consistently sank a wire fish trap or two in the James. He had a big family of his own, but when they were full of fish he'd sometimes bring us a five gallon bucket of carp and catfish. We thought the carp tasted great (which says something about our diet, I suppose). I think the neighbor liked the challenge of trapping the fish, but now I wonder if he didn't also enjoy the competition of hiding the trap from the game warden, who often boated down the James looking for chains hanging from a tree that led to such traps. If the warden found a trap he demolished it.
Old Sweethearts:The farm closest to the river was occupied by a very elderly couple who did things the old-fashion way ... including heating with wood. They were straight as fence posts, and seemed inseparable. As they grew too old to cut their own wood, dad sent a few of us over to help them. The man had a buzz saw hooked to a tractor by a big swaying belt. It whirled at an amazing speed. We'd cut tree lengths to a size we could lift, and then feed them through the buzz saw to cut them to firewood lengths. The saw always scared me near to death, but we sawed wagon loads of wood with it and nary had a scratch. Maybe you're more careful when confronted with such danger.
Not me, of course:As I write this, I wonder if these eccentric neighbors thought the Hunhoffs were a little "touched" by the river, too? (Bernie Hunhoff)