Steve Fernlund and The Long Way Home

After seeing a television report about Minneapolis the other day, the Bohunk and I coined what seemed to be a new word: horrification. My AI assistant noted that the word has actually been around a long time, used by writers to emphasize horror unfolding or being inflicted. It applies here: the horrification of our community began the moment the first chemical canister was deployed directly into the face of an unarmed citizen, pinned to the ground by three large ICE agents—an act of pure brutality. This column begins my fifth year as a freelance writer for the North Shore Journal. In the past four years, my humble efforts have resulted in over 300,000 words on the newsprint: enough “content” to fill two or three novels, and up to six business books. Not much of what I’ve written expresses the depth of my anger when the President, his appointees,  and Republican members of Congress describe our state as a hellhole of terrorists and criminals who hate America. They go on to revel in ...

Once upon a time, I was infatuated with cars. Not what I’d call a gearhead, I saw myself more as a car guy, a driver and admirer, not a tinkerer. At the tender age of five, I could already identify the make and model of almost every car. On road trips, I’d drive my parents up the wall, reeling off the make and model of every car I saw. I think my dad was impressed, and he’d often point out a vehicle for me to identify. His motive was likely to get my mom to stop driving from the back seat for a minute. Before I could legally drive, there was a slot car hobby. Different makes, models, and hot rods populated my stable, kept in a cigar box with the parts and pieces that made up my “road race” set. But getting behind the wheel, and not just sitting on my dad’s lap and turning the steering wheel, was a significant goal.  Finally, when I was 12 or 13, he let me drive the car from the highway on Fernlund Road to Grandpa’s farm. It was maybe a mile or two, but it seemed much longer. The ca...

Seriously, why all the awards shows? In October, I was an Honoree at the Red Rock Democratic Club Silver Jubilee in Las Vegas. Honored because I was president of the club when it was chartered by the county party 25 years ago. I earned a picture in the program, a brief bio, and an acrylic star engraved with the club logo, the jubilee date, and my name. I didn’t fly to Sin City to collect my award. Hence, the club shipped me my star, which now sits atop the bookshelf in my office alongside a wood carving I did in a North House class, a Dala horse my Swedish grandparents brought over in the 1950s, and a bronze sculpture of two wolf heads we’ve had for 30 years. When I played Little League baseball in the '60s, I didn’t earn a trophy. By the time I had kids in the Bloomington Athletic Association, the kids were all getting trophies or ribbons for making it through a season with a coach who was sometimes under the influence of legal, adult beverages. It was the beginning of participati...

While New Year's resolutions aren’t my thing, I do find it helpful to do a bit more self-reflection this time of year than I do lying awake in bed in the middle of each night. Motivated by John Lennon’s “So this is Christmas, and what have you done?”  a line that demands a personal accounting for the last twelve months, I reflect on a lifelong habit of over-committing to things. Amid the whirlwind of raising children and climbing the corporate ladder, the most profound feedback often came from the most unexpected places. I’ll never forget overhearing my daughter describe my career to a friend. Her words were simple, yet they cut through my professional ego with indelible clarity: “He leans back in his chair, puts his feet on his desk, and talks to people on the phone.” Kids say the darnedest things. Not long after hearing that, I became aware that the success ladder I’d been climbing was leaning against the wrong building. To extend the cliche, I started reading things that mention...