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Northwest Salmon



Many work toward goals for

future of their community

by John Suhr

You need to have a vision of where you want to be and what you want to do. This is not only true personally and professionally but also as a community.

If you do not work on going forward you are headed in the wrong direction. You need to be progressive on your vision and move toward that goal.

Webster has many vision teams and vision leaders. When I say leaders it is everyone with the same vision working together for the same goal.

There are people working on housing, the downtown, businesses plus many others working to take Day County and Webster forward.

One such vison team is laying out a path for Webster’s future. In this case it is literally and physically a path.

We have many great recreational attractions already. A new track, pool, soccer complex, baseball/softball complex, school and city playground equipment. Now a group is looking at a walking and bike path.

The group is looking over phases that would connect the nursing home, hospital, track and soccer fields. A project of this magnitude would need to be done in phases and over time.

On May 7 a painted line will show walkers their ideas, but the team is open to your ideas. The group wants to know what the community thinks about the location and so forth.

A long-term goal or vision of any person, group or community would be a project that would connect many of the other attractions they have to offer.

So if you have some time on May 7 stop down by the track, take a stroll, take in a soccer game happening that day. See the vision and let the committee know your input.



Writer takes blame for cold weather snap

by Amanda Fanger

Okay, I’ll admit it. It was me. I’m sorry.
I think it may be my fault that we’ve been getting all this cold weather lately. Last weekend, I packed all my winter sweaters away.


With all this rain we’ve been getting, the grass and weeds of my lawn sure are green and lush... and tall.

I’ve had no chance to mow yet this year. Between travel and a busy schedule, it just hasn’t happened yet. I feel a twinge of accomplishment because I managed to get most of the weeds pulled in most of my flower beds the weekend before last. Oh how I wish that were a one-time job.

I thought I was antsy to get some yard work done when my neighbors all got their mowers out before I left for a weekend with family. I even made a point of leaving to get back early enough to mow Sunday night. But instead, I made it home just in time to beat a big rainstorm indoors.

At least with the cooler weather, my yard still resembles a yard and not a jungle.
Dear neighbors, please don’t despair or lose faith in me – I promise to get the greenery hacked back before it takes over the neighborhood.


It’s been a while since I heard it, but for a time there was a vehicle that would drive by on the street next to my house at 11:30 almost every night. It was annoying to a degree because the vehicle was so loud.

I stopped hearing it at about the same time the city put in a new set of stop signs at the intersection there. One is in my yard – another something to mow around I guess.

However, before that, I tried to force myself into being compassionate towards the situation, imagining the driver was an elderly, gray-haired woman whose hearing aid was bad and she didn’t realize her large pickup on a lift kit needed new mufflers.


Family gatherings just aren’t quite the same when you work at a newspaper.

Nearly constantly, there seems jeers and threats made towards you with remarks about your next column. The comments are along the lines of, “If this ends up in the paper...”

Sometimes they leave the statement unfinished, an added level of threat.

Well, I’m a firm believer in the fact that you own your own story and that you have a right to tell that story and as the writer saying goes, “If they wanted you to write nice things about them, they should have treated you better.”

But seriously, thanks to all my family and loved ones who indulge me by allowing me to use them as source material.

Although, it’s not like they have a choice...


I hope this is enough for random thoughts this week.




Revolution erupts among

Dirty trash is clean history

by Emre K. Erku

Discarded items awaiting to be picked up by city workers at the end of Webster properties shouldn’t be labeled “just trash.” Driving to work amid last week’s citywide clean-up, in fact, you might have spotted subtle hints of beauty radiating from cigarette burned recliners or wheelless baby carriages.

Take a deep look; read between the lines before checking your smartphone next time. These dying relics expose the ancient innards of this community. The old couch with that distinct rip everyone loved; a terrible dryer about to explode; Sparky’s favorite dog kennel... These mementos never lie.

If you’re able to see beyond just material, you could document lifetimes poetically.

For instance...

Someone purchased that old dirty couch 37 years ago from some yokel near Forest City after munching countless strawberries fed by the delicate hands of a fine young wife embracing a western sun crystalizing the waters of a great Missouri River on the prettiest day imaginable. That evening a child was conceived, and the young couple slept peacefully into the music of prairie crickets.

Suddenly a baby screams and eyes widen to the pitch of a masked man saying congratulations. Another man wearing a collared shirt then convinces you to purchase that top-of-the-line baby carriage (with wheels). In seconds you go from playing nursery to playing catch to playing prom liaison. You find your knees aching from picking up Sparky’s scraps in the front yard and your back straining from fixing that broken dryer, which kept your kid’s jerseys fresh before every game, one too many times.

Beer stains soak into that once lovely couch – now sitting in your garage – following a Sunday afternoon of watching the Vikings with a son who was minutes ago scared and feeling undeniably vulnerable towards the rest of his future until you extended to him the greatest of fatherly advice.

Soon, staring into an old picture of your dearly beloved wife while cradling a snifter of top-shelf brandy, you eventually doze off, almost like the time you and her dreamed together in the serenade of prairie crickets, and you accidently burned the side of your recliner with a cigarette you usually never smoke.

And now, as you somehow managed to place the wheelless carriage, burned recliner, ripped couch, old dryer and Sparky’s favorite kennel at the foot of your driveway on a rainy April afternoon, your phone rings. Out the window you see the city workers hauling a collection of your history to the dump, but through the phone you hear the lovely giggles of a granddaughter.

It’s not trash, it’s the story of life.


Fiksdal Funeral Home

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