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Northwest Salmon

 

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Editorial

Let’s concentrate on the important

issues facing our country

by John Suhr
suhrs@reporterandfarmer.com

There is a bigger call now for President Trump’s tax returns to be disclosed. It is the first time in my memory that someone who was not previously a politician, but rather just a businessman was elected president. So it does make Trump different than other presidents who have held that office before him. It does and does not.

I have no problem demanding that the president disclose his tax returns, and he should. But should it stop there?

I’m sure one of the reasons for the disclosure is to see if there are conflicts of interest. Does the person have the money he claims or not may be what others are wondering.

But should the demand for his tax returns stop there? And I am not talking about the people in congress either. It was not that many years ago the Argus Leader requested the Sioux Falls School District Superintendent contract. They are being paid by tax dollars after all.

But if you think of it, where does it stop? Everyone who has a federal job or receives money from the federal government? How about those at the state level or even a step down to the local level? From the person who plows our roads to the teachers and aides in our school system.

Yes it might seem a little far fetched, but they are paid by tax dollars. You could even go beyond that to people who are in business and receive money from a public tax dollars all the way to the employees who work for said businesses.

Yes I believe the president should disclose his tax returns. But has this become more of a game as not too many years ago all those seeking the president’s birth certificate.

Let’s put the stupid stuff aside and get to the heart of fixing health care, roads and bridges, taxes, immigration, the use of bathrooms and all the other stuff that needs fixing and issues more pressing than that.


Columns


This was to be the greatest column ever

A story to illustrate the subtlety of fleeting thoughts

by Amanda Fanger
reporter@reporterandfarmer.com


I had an idea.

The key word here being had.

Let me explain...

It was earlier this week that the idea came to me. These things are sometimes subtle and often come in a way you don’t even realize until they’re there.

I was tucking myself into bed, after a long and seemingly uneventful day. I think I’d just finished with some housework before deciding to call it a day. I’d dutifully washed my face, brushed my teeth and taken my vitamins before changing into my pajamas and climbing into bed. My cat had jumped onto my bedspread and was snuggled up next to me.

It happened just before I turned off the bedside lamp so sleep could overtake me, the way these things usually do.

It was then that an idea popped into my head.

An idea for a column.

At the time, I recall thinking that it was going to be a stupendous read once I had put it to written word. I was tired, but vaguely aware of my excitement. This is the type of feeling I get when these sort of ideas come to me. It is in these moments where I feel most blessed and filled with joy by my job.

It was to be a grand column, indeed.

Looking back, I have this vague sense of there having been some sort of visual stimulant which had sparked the idea. A fleeting glance of something that inspired my conscious to conjure the thought into being.

I could hardly contain my excitement and nearly jumped up to begin composing the masterpiece right then and there... but the clock already bore testimony to the late hour.

Because it was such a miraculous and unique idea, the likes of which people would surely never have read before (and perhaps because I’m a bit of a lazy slouch when I get sleepy) I told myself I didn’t need to write it down, that I’d remember in the morning.

But you know what?

I didn’t.

I’ve scrambled around all this week, retraced my steps, racked my brain and done just about everything I could think of to get that idea back, but it didn’t happen. I was so convinced that the idea would come back to me when I least expected it that I put off even writing my column until the very end, trying to give my brain every opportunity to regenerate that original thought.

But, it didn’t happen, so you’re stuck reading this fluff this week.

I had a better idea.

The key word here being had...

~af~

 

 

Tourney season is here

by Emre K. Erku
sports@reporterandfarmer.com


A full eight hours of sleep is a rarity this time of year.

Especially for South Dakota sports journalists, burning the open road for hundreds of miles just to snap a couple photos and document the wild and wacky world of high school athletics is a job best done on insomnia, isolation and pure fanaticism.

Think about it... Writing is a profession much less lucrative than the modern day cassette tape industry. So if you’re delusional enough to believe you’ll be able to support a family – much less yourself – by the way of the pen, you must force yourself into psychosis... Because normal people don’t make good writers.

At the snap of a finger we must abandon our personal lives (or lack thereof) and break the speed limit to places like Sioux Falls, Rapid City and Mitchell, thirsty to cover some good action and take in the raucous atmosphere with the best seat in the house.

Yeah, our backseats are littered with fast food wrappers and our divorce rates are astronomical, but that doesn’t matter.

Hearing the parents and coaches scream their lungs out while their student athletes learn what it’s like to maintain composure under the ultimate spotlight is too priceless of a scene. It’s exhilarating. It’s addicting.

All these intricate plays blossom before your eyes almost poetically while the strenuous hours of practice materialize into some sort of impromptu phenomena, giving towns folk something to hang their hats on for the next 30 or so years.

You can’t beat it. Nor can you replace it.

The nomadic lifestyle of drifter journalism involves adventure, and I am no stranger to adventure. It’s so cool.

One minute you’re hearing the snap of some poor wrestler’s collarbone after being slammed to the cold ground of the Rushmore Civic Plaza. The next minute you’re playing poker in Deadwood, sipping whiskey like Wild Bill.

Other times you’re snapping the picture of a game-tying shot in Watertown then comparing it with the other professional photographers who just so happened to be there.

And, sometimes, if we’re lucky enough, when parents take a gander at their child’s published picture, they tear up, proud and speechless.

I love that so much.

So to heck with sleep. To heck with financial assets, security and timely bill paying. That kind of lifestyle is meant for somebody else.

Most days, my life savings rest in my wallet and eventually deplete during happy hour. But for the sake of covering sports, it’s definitely well worth a lifetime of feral standards.

I’ll sleep when I’m dead.

“Ray.”

Fiksdal Funeral Home

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