German marked my first foreign-language class in sixth grade, and perhaps my first experience with social pressure.
Frau Wied assigned us the task of choosing our German names. This would become the name she would call us throughout the year during class. And, as it turned out, in the halls.
She handed out a xeroxed list of names separated into “ein Junge” and “Mädchen”. I scanned the list of names like an expectant mother 4,400 miles away in Berlin. Though, as a sixth grader on the first day of middle school, it’s hard to say whose stakes felt higher.
Many of the other kids in my class had gone to the elementary school with the advanced learning program. To this day, I am unclear of how my classmates wound up in the advanced program so early, as I had made my way into the advanced classes in sixth grade under suspicious circumstances.
A broken right wrist prevented me from filling in the Scantron bubbles on the IOWA Basic test we were required to take to measure our skills against the rest of the nation. Because of my injury, a teaching assistant sat with me to fill in the bubbles of the answers I selected.
Was it pure intelligence that allowed me to score in the 98th percentile, or the teaching assistant’s terrible poker face when I attempted to pick the incorrect answer?
The world will never know.
Regardless, it landed me in a classroom, staring at a list of German names, trying to pick the “coolest” one because my friends already had their German names from their elementary school class.
Dieter, Günther, Helmut, Wolfgang, are you kidding me?! Stefan. Stefan! That’s my best friend’s name in New York. I looked at the chalkboard, and someone had taken the name.
I chose Felix because I used to watch Felix the Cat. How inspired.
Yet, it wasn’t as cool as the names my friends had.
Their names fit them like a tailored suit. Meanwhile, I sat at my desk, tugging at my waistband and shifting in my seat, all too aware that ‘Felix’ fit me as poorly as the Eddie Bauer khakis my mom bought me for the new school year.
It was in this class that I, Felix, first learned of the Holocaust and the atrocities committed by the Nazis during World War Two.
Adults forget what it was like to learn about these things. Remembering the facts is easier than remembering the emotion and confusion stirred inside as the details piled up in front of us like bodies in mass graves. Papers, stars, hiding, trains, abuse, starvation, and death. It’s so much to absorb, even as an adult.
We forget the bump of adrenaline when the emotion enters the room, when the teacher’s solemn mood hushes the class, and we understand that now is not the time for jackassery.
The lights go out, and the faces of twelve-year-olds glow in the black-and-white footage from five lifetimes ago playing on the oversized tube TV, rolled in on an old metal cart. Soldiers on a beach, a furious man with a mustache yelling at a podium, rubble, terrified faces, shaved heads, and so many dead bodies.
When the video ends and the lights turn back on, the teacher wipes a final tear from their cheek.
What made it challenging is we had no frame of reference. These stories played like pure fiction or something that happened a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away. Which makes sense given we were also taught about the heroic American effort during World War Two. We learned how the bravest generation volunteered to cross the Atlantic to defeat those evil forces and hold them accountable for their actions.
And at the end of the day, when the bell rang, we went home and fell into a peaceful slumber because we live in America. The land of the free and home of the brave. Nothing like that will ever happen here.
Too bad the history curriculum didn’t focus more on the 1930s in Germany to find out how the fuck they ended up how they did. The beginning isn’t nearly as interesting as the end. The deliberate legal plotting of Gleichschaltung turned neighbors against each other through policy and social pressure. The average person didn’t realize they were a frog in a pot of water being slowly brought to a boil.
We are plagued by people who have given up their critical thinking skills.
We have become addicted to the confirmation bias found within our chosen echo chambers, unable to face the discomfort of breaking free for a moment because doing so would make falling asleep at night a little more challenging.
Thinking of neighbors being pulled from their homes in the freezing cold isn’t conducive to the peaceful slumbers we’re used to getting in the United States of America.
In my state of Minnesota, thirty minutes from my home, a masked federal agent shot Renee Good in the face three times, in broad daylight, in front of witnesses, and filmed from more vantage points than even Oliver Stone could have conceived of.
Yet, people refuse to watch it and instead regurgitate the opinions they see on TV. Somehow, ignoring the document they claim to hold above all, the Constitution.
On Friday, January 16th—my daughter’s birthday — we went out to dinner in Maple Grove, MN.
We looked out the glass doors of our restaurant to the street as we waited for our table. We could see a restaurant and a bank across the street, along with some retail shops. A fresh coating of light snow blanketed the sidewalk. An unmarked SUV with blue and red lights flashing in the rear window sat parked in the street, unattended. I exchanged a worried glance with my wife.
We both started from a rational place. Probably just an unmarked police car or security investigating an alarm. It was 6:30 in suburbia for Christ’s sake.
The faint sound of car horns out on the street, which has quickly become the signal of the government’s abuse of power in Minnesota, began. ICE was across the street, surrounding a restaurant to detain the “criminals” who were in the middle of their shift serving people like me. Families celebrating birthdays or anniversaries.
Ice raided the restaurant I work in. A troubling time we are in, and a reminder to share as much resources as we can and to defend each other. Cops was called and they did nothing! But protestors arrived and they helped these ppl get away. All we have is ourselves rn. #MN#ice#community
I tried to focus on my family, on my daughter, and not on the possibility that the state was tearing someone away from their life and family, or masked men walking through her birthday dinner en route to the kitchen. Shame bubbled up inside me.
That’s the point, though, isn’t it? You don’t need to be terrified to be terrorized. It’s the chaos and uncertainty. They are counting on people to go along to get along.
I’ve had enough. This isn’t a difference of opinion on policy, Democrat versus Republican. This is right and wrong. How can people claim these ICE agents are “just doing their job” or “this would all be over if people would just comply”?
I can’t. As a son of a veteran of Vietnam and the grandson of a veteran and Purple Heart recipient in World War II, I learned this is the exact behavior they swore to protect the country from.
There are some who didn’t anticipate the call of tyranny and oppression coming from inside the house.
I wrote an open letter to my eight-month-old son when Donald Trump was elected to his first term. I remember being nervous to share it with the world, but more so with my friends and family. It was clear to me a decade ago who he is, but did I want to risk relationships in the name of politics?
This is how Gleichschaltung works. They don’t need me to be on board; they just need me to be quiet.
Maybe you voted for the people who are ignoring our Constitution, and that’s okay.
Now, however, we must all wake up and say, “No,” because if we accept this unconstitutional abuse of power, who will be targeted next?
We are seeing the good people of Minnesota on the streets of Minneapolis saying, “No.” We are seeing people who recognize the pot of water as the trap it is.
Wake up. Pay attention. Watch the videos and ask yourself: Do these people look like dangerous criminals?
As the country prepares for a historic cold front of ice and snow, it is the hand of tyranny grasping for control.
Everyone remembers the morning the stranger came to town, speaking of sheep. The debate over whether he should be called a shepherd is a powder keg in the tavern, and the mention of his name is the spark.
He arrived with nothing but a rust-speckled toolbox and stood at the door of the town’s land office.
Dust shimmered in a single beam of sunlight in the cramped office. The land agent, a man with thinning gray hair, glasses on the tip of his nose, and a smoldering pipe, peered up from his desk.
The man explained he wanted to buy the vacant plot in the hills above the town.
“Depends.”
“Depends on what?”
“What do you intend to do with this land?”
“I’d like to raise sheep.”
“Wolves.”
“No. Sheep.”
The land agent raised an eyebrow. “I ain’t hard of hearin’; I said wolves.”
He stood and traced exaggerated, dramatic circles around both areas on the map hung behind him, as though the man were dim.
“These woods have wolves,” he said in a slow, staccato rhythm. “Wolves eat sheep. You can’t have sheep there. Have a nice day.”
He sat and returned to his paperwork. The stranger didn’t move.
“Can I buy it anyway?”
“Do you have sheep?”
“I’ll find some.”
“You don’t have a place to live.”
“I’ll build one.”
After the land agent had exhausted all of his questions, he drew up the land deed.
People from the town he came from asked the same questions. He didn’t let them anger him the way they used to. The questions are ghosts, phantoms lurching outward, grasping for him under the guise of protection.
He worked in the sun, building his modest home and barn while the green grass grew tall and danced in the wind, carrying the sweet scent of wildflowers. The townspeople paused on occasion to watch his progress in the hills, offering reactions he would never know.
When he walked down the road to town, he was kind to those he met, and they were cordial in return. Conversations were pleasant, and he often shared a laugh with the store owners when buying more materials.
It wasn’t long before people began to refer to him as “the shepherd,” mocking him for his lack of a herd.
He wondered why no one asked questions anymore. He obsessed over it, walking the winding gravel road with the thick forest reaching out from the west side like jagged claws. The only alternative was to obsess over the watchful eyes of wolves hidden in the dark. So he walked, his eyes on the rolling hills illuminated by the setting sun, the landscape glowing otherworldly as he admired it from the shadow of the woods.
He worked from sunrise to sunset, making countless mistakes along the way. Some were so simple in nature that he’d be forced to stop and scratch his head, baffled at his incompetence. He found it even harder to believe his hands had done the fixing. But he continued, sure that once he finished the fence and sheep filled his pasture, the town would see he was a shepherd.
That thought became his North Star on his trips to town, gazing in awe at his new home from the shadow of the woods, silent wolves stalking him under their cover. He smiled as he slipped into a daydream: a flock of sheep sweeping across the green hills like a school of fish in open water.
The fence began as wood, crooked planks leveled out with each addition, until it shifted to a stone wall for no apparent reason. Jagged, uneven rocks turned into stones that fit like puzzle pieces. Soon, they formed an enduring rock wall sure to outlast him. And last, in another peculiar change of material, the fence turned to sagging wire—barbed, snarled, and rusted—stretched between leaning posts. The final wires he strung were taut, enclosing the pasture his sheep would call home.
The townspeople walked the hills, passing sections of the fence in various states of repair. They returned to town with silent impressions and whispered theories.
If they had asked, he would have explained that he used different materials to prove to himself that he could. When the planks got level, the work became mundane. As he hammered nails, theories of the most efficient way to build a rock wall filled his mind to the point of obsession. When the wood ran out, he found rocks and began to test his hypotheses.
With the fence complete, the shepherd roamed the hills in search of sheep. Along the way, he met a stray dog in need of work. They shared meals under bright blue skies in the hills and became fast friends. Some trips kept them away for weeks, but the shepherd assembled a modest flock.
As the sun dipped lower and greens gave way to gold, the shepherd allowed a moment to pat himself on the back. He had a pasture, a home, a barn, a fence, a sheepdog, and thirty-five sheep. He was a shepherd; there was no doubt.
One morning, as the sun slid behind the now-bare forest, he thought of the wolves. Without their green cover, the trees bared their teeth. Winter approached, and he didn’t have time to worry about wolves. His focus was the flock.
He wanted to train his sheep to return to their sheepfold without having to herd them.
A cold wind followed him into town, curling beneath heavy grey clouds. It was quiet now. Eyes burned holes in his back, peering out from behind darkened windows. The soft, rhythmic tap of his shepherd’s hook announced his presence.
He walked into the blacksmith’s and came out in less than a minute, a triangle chime in his hand. He made his way back up the hill, hood up and head down, the breeze nipping at his cheeks.
That evening, when it was time to bring in the sheep, he sent his dog out alone and stood by the fold, chiming the triangle in time. Hoping its pleasant music would teach the sheep to come for food at day’s end or, in more dire moments, stay alive.
The first night, only a couple of sheep came bounding over the hill. The second night, none came.
Too far out to hear, the shepherd reasoned.
On the third night, after a few minutes of ringing, the entire flock came over the rise.
Pride swelled in the shepherd’s chest, only to drain to his gut when he spotted a wolf, nose inches off the ground, sniffing the fenceline for weakness. The shepherd straightened. The wolf froze, locking eyes with him, beginning an arrogant, deliberate trot, never looking away.
His dog snarled from the other side of the fence as the sheep began to scatter in fear. The shepherd wasn’t ready for this fight.
He dashed to his barn and grabbed an old dinner bell. Back outside, he swung it over his head in furious arcs, a guttural cry ripping from his throat. The wolf bolted until the darkness of the woods consumed it. His dog’s barks echoed across the pasture into the night.
That night, he collapsed onto his straw bed.
Were the sheep coming to the chime or fleeing from the wolf?
The wolf came to the triangle and ran from the bell.
The shepherd made a decision:
He would train the sheep with the bell.
He would teach the wolves to fear it.
Whether or not a bell could serve this dual purpose was a question he intended to answer.
The gray buildings bloomed into gold in the rising sun as he walked into town. Soon after, he came back up the road, a bundle of lumber under his arms. White plumes of breath drifted behind him in the cold, sunlit air.
A few early risers in the town caught a glimpse as he passed by with wood. By mid-morning, everyone had made up their mind: the shepherd was fixing his fence.
As the shadows grew long that afternoon, the woman who lived in the cabin in the woods rounded the bend to the shepherd’s pasture. Though they were each other’s closest neighbors, they had never spoken.
She halted when she saw him not tending to his flock. Not repairing his fence.
He was digging.
Mounds of dirt surrounded the shepherd, his back hunched as he worked to carve a hole into the earth.
He stood and stretched when he caught her in his periphery. He wiped his brow with the back of his hand, smearing dirt across his forehead. He lifted a hand to block the orange sun as it teetered on the edge of the forest, hungry for light.
Her face came into focus, half-lit and watchful, and his dust-caked face broke into a warm, easy grin. He waved.
The woman raised her hand in return and flashed a smile before walking down the hill.
His dog barked. The shepherd turned to the sheepfold and fetched the dinner bell.
The woman flinched when the violent clang echoed through the hills. She paused, her heartbeat thumping in her ears, expecting the soft chime of a triangle. Another sharp ring, as she heard a rustle in the woods behind her, followed by a guttural, canine whine.
Gravel crackled underfoot as she quickened her pace toward town.
The few sheep that came to the triangle scattered over the crest of the hill at the clanging. The shepherd expected this. He rang it again.
A wolf trotted, cocksure, along the fence as it had the day prior. He slung the bell in wild arcs over his head, and once again, the wolf darted for the woods.
The shepherd smiled as the trees swallowed it, and the flock came bounding in from the pasture. His dog barked, short and sharp, before skittering into view with its tail between its legs. The dog veered left as a lone wolf burst from a weak spot in the fence, in pursuit of the flock.
He rang harder. He screamed till his throat burned.
It was no use.
Tears cut bright trails through the dirt on his cheeks as the wolf took down one of his sheep in the pasture. The wolf licked the blood from its paws, belly full, and stared at him. He stared back, unmoving, until the wolf spun and trotted off into the woods.
The shepherd sat in the grass for a long time, gnashing his teeth.
When word spread about what the woman witnessed, the townspeople turned their eyes to the pasture. No one could make sense of it. Why wasn’t he fixing the fence?
He marched down the road into town, snarling breath hissing from his nose. His eyes scanned the tree line. He seethed.
He stomped to the blacksmith’s door and knocked. A moment later, it creaked open a sliver, revealing his wary face.
“Closed.” The blacksmith looked him up and down, covered in filth.
“I need a bigger bell.”
“Don’t have one. Good night.”
The shepherd caught the closing door with his foot and peered over the blacksmith’s shoulder.
“I want that bell.”
The bell was substantial. Heavy. Its bronze surface black with soot in places and tarnished in others. A hairline crack serpentined across one side.
“That hung in a chapel that burned down years ago. What use do you have for a bell like that, holding mass for your sheep?” The blacksmith chuckled at his joke and lit his pipe.
“Is it for sale?”
“Well,” the blacksmith took a long draw from his pipe, his dark eyes narrowed, darting between the bell and the shepherd. Two white streams of smoke fell from his nostrils, “I suppose so. It’ll need some repair if you want it to ring, and I’ll have to arrange delivery.” He rubbed his chin with his thumb and forefinger. “I could have it to you in one month.”
“One month.” He stared at the blacksmith for a beat and handed him a sack. “Deal.”
“Yes, sir.” The blacksmith peeked into the sack and nodded as a quick snarl escaped his lips as though catching the scent of an easy meal on the wind. “One month.”
“Thank you.” The shepherd turned on his heel and made his way out of town, lantern clanging at his side.
The blacksmith stood in his doorway, watching him.
The general store owner stepped outside, glanced from the shepherd to the blacksmith, and raised a puzzled brow.
The blacksmith shrugged and closed the door.
The townspeople peeked through their curtains, watching the orange glow of this lantern fade into the dark.
He was already working when the sun rose over his pasture, beginning a daily routine the townspeople would come to know well.
Each morning, he rose before dawn and worked in the cold, damp barn by the light of his lantern. The scent of hay and earth hung in the air as he measured lengths of the rope, sorted heavy chains, and cut and smoothed wood. By week’s end, both thumbnails were purple, his hands stiff and blistered, riddled with splinters.
Yet, every morning, he worked as the sun rose, listening to his dog’s slow, steady breathing as it curled up in the entryway.
At noon, the shepherd made a daily pilgrimage into town while the sheep grazed.
That first week, the townspeople gaped at his physical deterioration. They gawked at his hands, aging a decade with each passing day. The shepherd always smiled, nodded, and said hello.
And once he passed, they bustled in his wake, whispering theories about what in the hell he was doing up there.
He spent his afternoons digging and moving earth, the sun hot on his shoulders. His fingernails grew jagged, caked with dirt like long-buried arrowheads worn down by time.
He thought of the townspeople as he worked. He laughed as he wondered what they must feel, what they say about his existence.
The dog tilted his head, confused, and let out a whine.
The man let out a belly laugh. “Yep,” he said, “that sums it up.”
He shook his head and went back to work. He kept at it until the black spiderwebs of forest shadow crept across his pasture in the dying light.
By the third night, the townspeople were expecting the bell. They moved to their chosen vantage points, watching the carnage in disbelief.
The wolves emerged from the woods, tongues smacking. One by one, they broke off, circling the fence at quiet, measured intervals. The bell rang and rang. It did not stop them.
As the wolves took their posts, the sheep began to bleat and scatter. The shepherd’s dog, unshaken and vigilant, worked the flock the best he could while the shepherd shook the bell with desperate force.
The wolves breached the fence all at once. They fanned out and fell into stride behind the herd, closing the gap in a silent, confident advance.
Night after night, the shepherd’s flock shrank.
He swung the bell over his head as he locked the surviving sheep into the fold, watching the wolves feast in his pasture. They ate until nothing but crimson-stained wool surrounded them, and the sky turned black as they made their retreat into the woods. He would wait for the sole, haunting howl that would echo from its depths. His returned scream of agonized rage marked the end of the night’s terror.
This was the pattern.
Every day.
All month.
The townspeople grew bolder.
They altered their walking routes, timing them for when the shepherd was away from the sheepfold, desperate to know what mystery he was digging up.
What could be more important than fixing his fence? Than saving his sheep?
No one could agree on a theory.
The blacksmith hired the usual team he called on when something heavy needed moving, and they carted the bell up the road to the shepherd’s barn.
The townspeople followed.
The team hung the bell in short order. By midday, a tarnished bronze bell gleamed from the barn’s eaves, catching the high afternoon sun.
The shepherd stood below it, marveling at the new bell, smiling as the moving team returned to town. He turned to the townspeople gathered along his fence and pointed to the bell.
“Not bad!”
The townspeople stood expressionless, eyes on him.
The shepherd shrugged, shuffled to the front of his sheepfold, and studied the smooth ground where he had once turned the earth. He turned in a slow circle, eyeing the ground, stopping a few times to smooth some dirt with his toe.
Satisfied, he exhaled, shuffled back to the barn, leaned into its shade, and slid down against the wall.
He took in the bell one last time, closed his eyes, and slept.
The townspeople remained, like statues lining the fence, watching the shepherd sleep as the icy shadows of the forest reached to touch their backs.
His dog nudged him with a low whine, and yelped. The shepherd’s eyes snapped open. He shook the sleep off and sprang to his feet.
The crowd began to stir in anticipation of the first ring of the bell.
The shepherd disappeared into the barn and returned with the dinner bell in hand. The crowd murmured.
His chest expanded as he drew in a long breath through his nose.
He rang the bell hard and fast, its sound cutting across the hills.
No one near the barn could see the wolves coming, but they felt them.
The faint bleating of the sheep rose from the pasture. The shepherd’s dog barked sharp commands, herding the few sheep that remained.
The townspeople tightened their grips on the fence before them, stone, wire, or wood, white-knuckled.
The smaller herd meant the wolves had an extended chase. The sheep were nearing the sheepfold as the pack strode behind, eager for their meal, calm and confident.
The shepherd stood firm, ringing the bell.
As the dog culled the sheep into the sheepfold, the townspeople let out a collective sigh, the first night in weeks without death.
But the shepherd did not shut the gate.
He kept ringing the bell, backing away toward the barn as the wolves advanced, stalking. Their bodies sank, shoulder blades rising with each step, eyes locked on the sheep.
The shepherd reached the barn door. He rang the bell once more, mouthing something to himself.
He vanished into the barn and hurled his scant weight into the bell pull.
The dinner bell gave a hollow clang as it hit the dirt.
For a moment, the world stood still.
The enormous bell rang out, a thunderous gong that sent wolves flinching and townspeople clapping hands to ears.
As the bell swung back, the taut line jerked a lever upward. A chain shot through a groove in the earth, linking the barn to the sheepfold.
Wooden spears burst from the earth, their tips dripping with wet, tar-like mud, circling the pack of wolves as the bell let out an echoing chime.
One wolf darted for the woods and yelped as a sharpened tip tore into its belly. The pack froze a moment before it erupted in snarls and howls.
The shepherd stood in the doorway of the barn, his silhouette bathed in sunlight. Stone-faced, his chest rose and fell in a smooth rhythm. His dog sat at his side, looking up to him.
He scanned the wolves, caged but alive, for a moment before he turned to the silent crowd.
His expression softened.
He smiled the same smile he always had. He raised a hand and waved as if it were a typical afternoon. As if this were just another day. Sweat shimmered on his brow in the light that now seemed cast only for him.
The townspeople gave no reaction. There was no applause. No cheers, only silence.
At the back of the crowd, he spotted a hand held above their heads in greeting.
The shepherd squinted into the beams of forest-filtered sunlight, and there she stood—
The woman, his neighbor.
The corners of his mouth pulled closer to his ears in a warm smile.
He watched them go, eyes on heruntil she disappeared down the hill.
He looked down at his dog, whose body gave an expectant wiggle before the shepherd scratched him behind the ears.
He gazed out over his pasture, golden in the setting sun. He exhaled.
If you grew up watching Home Improvement, Full House, Roseanne, or Family Matters, you probably assumed those parents were grown adults—real adults. Like, “paying off a mortgage and yelling at the kids about gas prices” adults.
Well… turns out most of them were younger than we are now. And yes, we’re having an identity crisis about it.
This week on The Kids Are In Bed, we celebrated our 17th wedding anniversary by walking around the Minneapolis Pride festival and crashing at the Sheraton while watching a thunderstorm. The spiral began when we played a game called “Guess the Sitcom Parent’s Age.”
We dug deep into the ages of iconic TV couples and characters—from the Taylors and the Conners to the Dunphys and the Formans. Here’s a taste of what we uncovered:
Tim and Jill Taylor (Home Improvement): Tim was just 36 when the show began. Jill? 34. Tim Allen himself was 38. You are older than Tim “The Tool Man” Taylor.
Dan and Roseanne Conner: Fictionally in their mid-to-late 30s. John Goodman was 36. Roseanne Barr? 36. They seemed 50. They were not.
Carl and Harriette Winslow (Family Matters): Carl was scripted at about 40, and Reginald VelJohnson was right there at 37 when the show premiered.
Red and Kitty Forman (That ‘70s Show): Kurtwood Smith (Red) was 54. Debra Jo Rupp (Kitty) was 49. Fictionally? Probably mid-40s. You know, regular Wisconsin parenting age for the disco era.
Danny Tanner (Full House): Bob Saget was 31. Thirty-one! That man was raising three girls, had a full-time job, and still had time to crack dad jokes and clean obsessively.
And that’s just the beginning. In this episode, we:
Compete in a sitcom theme song trivia game (spoiler: it’s harder than you remember)
Debate which TV couple we most resemble (against our will)
Share strange facts about Yes, Dear, The Goldbergs, and other sitcoms that raised us
Realize we’re the parents now—and maybe we have been for a while
If you’ve ever found yourself yelling “Don’t touch the thermostat,” or referencing a TV dad’s catchphrase unironically, this episode is for you. And if you’re curious how old Mike and Carol Brady were supposed to be, we’ve got that too (hint: they were basically 30 and looked like they paid property taxes in the 1950s).
Whether you’re here for the trivia, the chaos, or the marital banter, this one hits the sweet spot between nostalgic fun and existential dread. So pull up your favorite chair, grab a juice box or a cocktail, and let’s dive into why we all thought these parents were ancient—and what it means now that we’ve become them.
Golf: It’s the sport of kings, retirees, and… the Seversons? This week, Tim and Jenni ask the question that haunts many a summer Saturday: Are We Becoming a Golf Family?
From the fairways of Minnesota to the chaos of the backyard putting green, join us for a heartfelt, hilarious, and sometimes wayward drive through golf history, local legends, family traditions, and all the weird, wonderful rituals that come with chasing a little white ball.
In this episode:
Jenni recounts her latest golf scramble victory (and confusion over what “best ball” really means)
Tim breaks down golf’s wild Scottish origins, pandemic boom, and why Minnesota might be the real golf capital of America
Why every Minnesota golfer has a story about a green shaped like the state (yes, there are pictures)
Movie drops from Tin Cup, Happy Gilmore, Bagger Vance, and Grease 2
Unwritten rules, etiquette, fireball shots, and what it actually means to keep the vibes high—even when you’re hitting double bogey
We get personal: How do you introduce your kids to golf without traumatizing them (or yourself)? Why do so many Midwesterners grow up believing they’re only one good swing away from glory? And is it possible to teach golf, family patience, and math at the same time? (The answer, according to Jenni: absolutely not.)
This episode is for you if… …you’ve ever survived a family golf outing, argued over “best ball,” or just love the sound of laughter mixed with the occasional curse word and the sweet thwack of a perfectly hit shot.
What happens when two parents—one golf-curious, one golf-skeptical—try to figure out if their family is on the road to becoming golf people? In this week’s episode, Tim and Jenni put the clubs on the table and get real about the slow, chaotic, and unexpectedly hilarious journey toward “golf family” status.
What’s inside this episode:
• Jenni’s Scramble Adventures: Jenni recounts her third-ever golf outing (“all scrambles!”), why “best ball” is the worst-named format in sports, and the tiny victories that come with just getting your ball picked.
• Tim’s Deep Golf Dive: Get a crash course on the actual origins of golf (spoiler: it’s Scottish, it’s complicated, and it was once illegal), how Tiger Woods and the pandemic changed the game, and why Minnesota is secretly the golfiest state in America.
• Local Color & Family Roots: A new photo drop reveals Jenni’s mom as bona fide Minnesota carnival royalty—no circus, all fair. Plus, a nod to the “shortest family in Minnesota,” and stories about why Lions Club cheeseburgers are an actual county fair love language.
• Golf Culture, Movies & Meltdowns: From Tin Cup’s infamous “hands off her ass, Roy” line to Happy Gilmore, Bagger Vance, and even Grease 2—Tim and Jenni break down what these movies get right, what’s iconic, and why Shooter McGavin is forever.
• Unwritten Rules & Keeping Vibes High: Golf etiquette 101: where to stand, how to stay positive when the wheels (or the swing) come off, and why “play fast” might save your marriage. (Bonus: how music, hope, and a well-timed fireball shot can get you through almost anything.)
• Minnesota Golf Trivia & Farewells: Did you know Minnesota is a national leader in golf courses per capita? Or that the legendary Les Bolstad Golf Course at the U is closing after 100+ years? Pour one out—and maybe book your final tee time.
Why listen?
You want to feel seen about the emotional rollercoaster that is family golf.
You need a pep talk to survive your next scramble (or just the family cookout).
You’re a sucker for nostalgia, Minnesota trivia, or arguments about who the real “golf movie GOAT” is.
Or maybe you’re just here for the side banter, hot takes, and jokes about carnival royalty.
Bottom line: We may not have all the answers, but we know this: whether you’re carding birdies, doubles, or just trying to keep the vibes high, the journey to becoming a golf family is a story worth telling—and laughing about together.
🎧 Listen to “Are We Becoming a Golf Family?” Don’t forget to subscribe, and drop us a comment with your own family golf stories (or movie quotes—no judgment here).
Welcome back to The Kids Are In Bed! This week, Tim and Jenni dive headfirst into the wild, woolly, occasionally fried world of the county fair, where the air smells like nostalgia, livestock, and deep-fried mystery meat, and the odds of encountering a guy in a Korn T-shirt with two goth girls on his arm are statistically… not zero.
Why do we love county fairs so much? Maybe it’s the small-town chaos, the endless parade of characters, or just the hope of winning a neon green gorilla at the ring toss. But it’s more than that. County fairs are a slice of true Americana: a mashup of agriculture, spectacle, and human invention that somehow still brings a whole community together (even if nobody agrees on what actually belongs in a caramel roll).
This week, we get to the root of it all:
Did you know that the first American county fair started in 1807 in Massachusetts because one man was determined to showcase his sheep? (Shout out to Elkanah Watson, original sheepfluencer.)
The “Midway,” that magical place of games, rides, and questionable decisions—gets its name from the Chicago World’s Fair, where America’s first Ferris wheel stood taller than your average grain silo.
Pronto Pups (yes, the OG corn dog) and the Tilt-A-Whirl were both born right here in Minnesota, which means you have permission to roll your eyes at anyone from Texas claiming otherwise.
The Zipper? You know it, you’ve hurled on it, and you might have seen Tim and Jenni riding it together at a county fair back in the day.
Personal tales abound:
Tim’s mom? Real-life carnival performer. (We’re talking actual balancing acts, not just balancing kids and groceries.)
Tim’s grandma? Blue ribbon caramel roll queen at the Minnesota State Fair. (And yes, we’re still waiting on the recipe.)
And don’t get us started on the infamous Lions Club cheeseburgers—a county fair rite of passage that Tim still dreams about.
You’ll also get:
The secret history of greased pig wrestling (banned in Minnesota, still legal in Iowa… because, of course, it is).
Cow chip tossing tips and husband-hollering contests are truly works of Midwestern art.
Our pitch for how to finally adapt “Devil in the White City” for the screen, with Leonardo DiCaprio, Martin Scorsese, and at least three murders happening in soft focus behind the Ferris wheel.
Why listen? This episode isn’t just about the weird, wild history of county fairs; it’s about what happens when you mix nostalgia, family lore, and a little chaos in a tent with bad lighting. If you’ve ever felt strangely at home with a root beer float in one hand and a blue ribbon rhubarb pie in the other, this is the episode for you.
So pour yourself a lemonade, fire up the episode, and join us as we get “fairly” weird (see what we did there?). And if you spot an impossibly skinny guy at the fair with two goth girls and a massive stuffed animal, tell him he’s already internet famous.
