Rise and shine, all you amazing otters. It’s a cool, wet May 20 here in the west central region of Minnesota, where, despite the dark cloud carnival in town, the sun is starting to linger longer, the mosquitoes are planning their annual uprising, and life—despite its peculiar twists—continues to bloom.
This is Spiess in the Morning, coming to you live from the spectacular studios next to the swamp, where the coffee’s strong, the geese are ornery, and the conversation’s always a little deeper than an eelpout in Otter Tail Lake.
Today is May 20, a day strung tight with meaning and mystery in the loom of history. If you’re the type to find meaning in calendars, in history—and I’d wager if you’re up this early listening to me, you might be—then May 20 is ripe with resonance.
Let’s spin the globe backward, shall we?
On this day in 1927, a lanky, soft-spoken 25-year-old named Charles Lindbergh took off from Roosevelt Field, New York, in a plane that looked more like a tin mosquito than a symbol of progress. Thirty-three and a half hours later, he landed in Paris and rewrote what was possible. The Spirit of St. Louis became more than a plane—it became a metaphor. A man, alone, against the vastness of the Atlantic, trusting in machine, sky, and instinct.
The May 20 birthday groove is the one and only Cher, born in 1946. The goddess of pop, the queen of reinvention. From “I Got You Babe” to “If I Could Turn Back Time” to tweets that outshine most poetry slams, Cher’s living proof that identity is a river, not a stone.
And while we’re tuning our minds to the harmonic frequencies of memory, let’s not forget Cuba’s independence from the United States on this day in 1902. After a few years of American occupation post-Spanish rule, Cuba became officially independent… although “independent” came with quotation marks and fine print, thanks to the Platt Amendment. History’s like that sometimes—freedom with an asterisk.
Today also marks World Bee Day, folks. That’s right—those buzzing little diplomats of pollen and nectar get their due. Without them, our wildflowers wouldn’t bloom, and our grocery aisles would look like Soviet-era ration shelves. So, maybe plant something today. A little lavender. A sunflower. Say thank you in the universal language of chlorophyll.
And if that wasn’t enough to chew on, May 20 is also Pick Strawberries Day. Those sweet, red morsels of summer anticipation, bursting with juice and memory. If you’re lucky enough to find a patch around —or brave enough to swipe a few from Kate’s garden—my uncle Keith from Kandiyohi County often said: strawberries taste better when they’re picked fresh and eaten barefoot.
Alright Otters, let’s lace in another thread to today’s tapestry: Mister Bud Grant, born May 20, 1927.
Now, if you’re not from Minnesota, you might not know the name offhand. But in the land of 10,000 lakes—and as far north as our kindred spirits up in Winnipeg—Bud Grant is practically mythological. There’s Paul Bryan and there’s Bud Grant.
A man of few words, many wins, and even more grit. He coached the Minnesota Vikings to four Super Bowls. Didn’t win ‘em, but that’s not the point. The man coached in the kind of cold that would make most folks consider early retirement and a cabin in Key West. He wore a windbreaker when the mercury froze in the bulb. No headset. No nonsense. Just raw, stoic leadership.
Respect for the game, the country and human race was shown every week on and off the field with Bud Grant and his Purple People Eaters. His team lined up in unison during the national anthem still is bantered about on Sundays in taverns, living rooms and locker rooms.
And here’s the twist—before he was freezing on NFL sidelines, Mister Bud Grant played pro basketball with the Minneapolis Lakers and football with the Winnipeg Blue Bombers. Talk about a Renaissance man with a chinstrap.
Grant wasn’t just about plays and penalties. He was about poise. Discipline. Silence as strategy. The kind of man who’d rather teach you how to think than tell you what to do. A little like the wilderness itself.
So today, we tip our hat to Bud. The coach. The player. The stoic steward of Sundays.
But May 20 isn’t just about beginnings, folks. It’s also about the curtain calls.
On this day in 2011, the squared circle lost one of its most electric, unpredictable, and utterly unforgettable figures: “Macho Man” Randy Savage.
Ooh yeah… you remember him, even if you never watched a single WrestleMania. He was the human fireworks show in fringed leather, a voice like gravel soaked in thunder, and charisma so loud it could rattle the hinges off reality.
That top rope flying elbow? Poetry in motion, if your idea of poetry wears sunglasses indoors and screams about destiny. Well, the sun never sets when you are cool baby.
But behind the raspy bravado and neon robes, there was Randy Poffo—a former minor league baseball player turned wrestling legend who gave everything to the art of performance. Whether he was feuding with Hulk Hogan, romancing Miss Elizabeth, or selling Slim Jims with the intensity of a Shakespearean monologue, the Macho Man lived with a kind of reckless sincerity most of us only flirt with in dreams.
He died behind the wheel—heart attack at 58—and just like that, the Madness left the building.
So on this May 20, while we honor the high flyers like Lindbergh and the grounded giants like Bud Grant, let’s raise a figurative turnbuckle salute to Randy Savage. Because sometimes the human soul doesn’t walk gently into the good night. Sometimes it leaps, spinning, yelling “Snap into it!” all the way to the stars.
May 20, friends—she’s a layered one.
Birthdays, departures, takeoffs, touchdowns. From Cher to a dare and pollinators to piledrivers. The great cosmic wrestling match of life goes on—flesh versus time, meaning versus chaos, and always, always, the desire to leave just a little more behind than we found.
This is Spiess in the Morning. Reminding myself and anyone else who is listening to buzz like a bee, fly like Lindbergh, coach like Grant… and snap into some Madness.
Morning sunlight’s pouring into the spectacular studios next to the swamp like maple syrup over a hotcake at the Viking Cafe. The air smells like wet earth and blooming lilac, and folks, I gotta tell ya… it’s a new day otters.
You know, there’s something about this time of year—this shy, stumbling handoff from spring to summer—that makes a man want to hit the reset button. The snow’s long gone from Main Street, the muskrats are out meandering, and the lake’s starting to flirt with that deep turquoise blue. It’s not just the change in the air—it’s the change in us. It’s like Mother Nature herself hands us a blank notecard, says “Here. Write something new.”
People always talk about New Year’s resolutions, but I say the real fresh start comes now, in mid-May. When the wind’s still got a little bite, but the sun hangs around like it’s got nowhere else to be. There’s a rhythm in the rustling birch leaves that whispers, “try again.” Start a morning walk. Learn to fish. Meditate. Or just drink your coffee with both hands and no phone in sight.
I was out by the river yesterday—just me and Gouda, my trusted companion and the distant hum of a dragonfly convoy in the distance. Watched a muskrat paddle along like it had all the time in the world. And I thought, “That’s it, right there. That’s the pace.” Start slow, paddle steady, and enjoy the ripples.
Starting a new routine doesn’t mean becoming someone else. It means becoming more of who you already are.
Dusting off the guitar in the corner. Writing that letter you meant to send three years ago. Taking the long way home just because it smells like wild mint and last night’s rain.
Routines don’t have to be rigid—they can be rituals. Sacred little appointments with yourself. Brew the tea. Stretch the limbs. Say hello to the sunrise. And maybe, just maybe, listen to that little voice that’s been whispering beneath all the noise, “It’s time.”
So go ahead. Step into that new rhythm. Feel your soul loosen a notch. Let summer’s first kiss find you fully present, wide-eyed, and barefoot in the dew.
This is Spiess in the Morning, reminding myself and anyone else who is listening that every day’s a chance to begin again.
Don’t be afraid to be a beginner. The world’s just starting to sing its summer song… and she’s saving a verse for you.
Hey there, otters. Happy Tuesday from your friendly philosophical voice next to the swamp, Spiess in the Morning, keeping it real on one hand and wild in the other.
And today, let’s talk about one of the unsung heroes of the swampy backstage of life: the muskrat.
Yeah, I know. Not the flashiest animal out there. No antlers. No talons. No majestic howl echoing through the valley. But don’t let that fool you — the muskrat may not grace the covers of wilderness calendars, but that little furball is one of the oldest, most mythically layered beings paddling through the backwaters of our collective imagination.
To the Haudenosaunee — that’s the Iroquois Confederacy — the muskrat plays a starring role in the cosmic origin story. The world was once covered in water, and after Sky Woman fell through the hole in the sky, all the animals tried to bring up earth from the deep to build land. The beaver tried, the otter gave it a shot, even mighty loon couldn’t hack it.
But it was the muskrat — small, scrappy, underestimated — who dove deep, stayed under the longest, and came up with a paw full of mud. Gave up its last breath to make something new. That little act of sacrifice? That’s the birth of Turtle Island — the world we live on today.
Now that’s not just folklore, friends — that’s metaphysics with a fur coat. It’s about humility. Resilience. Doing the work nobody sees, but everybody benefits from. The muskrat’s the kind of creature who never shows up to the party, but still builds the house it’s held in.
Up here in the north, trappers know the muskrat well. A life lived between water and land — neither here nor there. An edge-walker. They dig their burrows deep and solid, but they’re always ready to swim away. It’s adaptability in a pelt.
You ever feel like that? Like you're half in one world, half in another, always adjusting, reshaping, surviving? Congratulations — you’ve got a little muskrat in you.
Even in pop culture, the muskrat makes these strange little cameos. Remember that song from the ’70s? "Muskrat Love", by Captain & Tennille? Kinda weird. Kinda awkward. But somehow it stuck. That’s muskrat energy. You don’t expect it — but it’s there, paddling through your subconscious like it owns the joint.
You know, in today’s hustle culture — where everything’s gotta be a spectacle, a brand, a performance — the muskrat reminds us that there’s power in quiet construction. That dam you’re building, that burrow you’re digging — it matters. Even if no one’s Instagramming it. Even if it doesn’t get a plaque or a pat on the back. Because survival, real survival, is rarely glamorous. But it’s sacred just the same.
So here’s to the muskrat — the muddy, matted saint of the marsh. The humble architect of rebirth. Not loud. Not flashy. But absolutely essential.
This is Spiess in the Morning, reminding myself and anyone out there listening that sometimes the ones closest to the ground carry the sky on their shoulders.
Spiess in the Morning, your philosopher with a microphone, your barefoot bard broadcasting from the spectacular studios next to the swamp on the edge of somewhere but just before the edge of nowhere.
Well folks the Minnesota Legislative session concluded yesterday and here, we didn’t hear a peep. In the past our fac machines, emails and phone lines were blowing up. Today, it’s a different world in the leadership game. Which brings me to this question otters.
You ever think about leadership?
Yeah, leadership — that shimmering concept that politicians love to wear like a Patagonia jacket in January, all puffed up and full of promises. We say we want leaders. But what we really want is someone to hold the flashlight while we change the tire of our democracy in the middle of a snowstorm.
You know, it’s funny. I was thumbing through The Bhagavad Gita this morning - a Hindu scripture— as one does before coffee — and Arjuna’s having this meltdown on the battlefield. He doesn’t want to fight. Doesn’t want to lead. And Krishna, the original cosmic wingman, tells him: “You must act, without attachment to results.” That’s leadership, baby. Doing the right thing not because you’ll win votes or likes or TikTok duets… but because the act itself is divine.
But let’s back it up — way up — all the way to the Book of Exodus.
Moses? The dude had a stutter. Seriously. The Almighty taps this sheep-herding stammerer and says, “Go lead my people out of Egypt.” And Moses, being the reluctant protagonist, basically says, “You sure you don’t want my brother Aaron? He’s better with a microphone.”
But that’s the paradox: real leaders don’t want the job. They don’t crave the limelight. They’d rather be hiking in Ely, walleye fishing on Lake Mille Lacs, or hosting a radio show in a town where loons outnumber voters.
You know, pop culture tosses us leaders like a Vegas buffet — lots of options, but most of it processed. We binge-watch presidential fantasies in The West Wing, swoon over Jedi councils and Marvel Avengers and think, “Yeah, that’s what leadership looks like.” Capes, speeches, swelling strings.
But in the real world? Leadership’s more like your Uncle Ron clearing your driveway after a blizzard without asking. It’s quiet. It’s consistent. And it sure as hell doesn’t go viral.
Let’s not forget the Norse had their own takes on leadership too. Odin, the Allfather, plucked out his eye for wisdom. He sacrificed for knowledge. Nowadays, we’re more likely to sacrifice our values for poll numbers, but I digress.
Here’s what I got juicing in my mind grapes this morning: leadership isn’t about charisma or conquest or control. It’s about stewardship. Responsibility. The willingness to be unpopular when popularity’s the drug of choice.
It’s Socrates choosing the hemlock because conscience beats compromise.
It’s Ruth in the Bible saying “Where you go, I go” — I don’t know about your folks, but what I heard was loyalty, humility, presence. Three things no algorithm can measure.
Today, when you consider leadership and leaders, for the state, or a classroom, a kitchen, or just your own life — remember: the greatest leaders walk not in front, not behind, but among. They listen. They serve. They know that sometimes, the real power isn’t in shouting orders, but in offering a warm mug of tea and saying, “Tell me what’s wrong.”
Alright, otters— stay warm, stay dry, and maybe let someone else have the last donut this morning. That, too, is leadership. Sometimes the greatest act of leadership is doing nothing at all.
SONG COVER BY BLUE WAILERS
OTTER TALK COMMUNITY CALENDAR
Exploratory: Fly Fishing: All equipment is provided, but feel free to bring your own rod and reel if you'd like! At the end of the class, participants can enjoy fishing from the shore or wading in the water. You'll need eye protection (sunglasses or eyeglasses), a vehicle state park permit, and appropriate clothing for the weather and wading. Minnesota residents can fish without a license in most state parks, while non-residents will need a fishing license if they choose to fish. Children under 16 must be accompanied by an adult. Hosted by Front 20 Outfitters
Location: Glendalough State Park - Molly Stark Picnic Area
Cost: $28
RSVP requested: https://elevateotc.events/fly-fishing
The Bookmobile stops across from the Parkers Prairie Post Office every other Wednesday throughout the year. You can find the Bookmobile there from 3 pm to 4 pm. Not only does the Bookmobile have books, movies & magazines to check out, but the Bookmobile and member libraries also offer a wide variety of electronic resources including Ebooks, downloadable audiobooks, streaming movies, TV and music, and a wide variety of educational databases and distance learning resources.
Friday May 23 is Darren Quam Live at Willy T's Tavern & Grill, 300 Thumper Lodge Rd, Ottertail, MN
Join The Depot on 59’s Summer Volleyball league in Erhard, MN! 8 Weeks- Ages 21+- Coed Teams.
Volleyball & Chill Wednesday:
May 28-July 23
July 30-September 10th
Power Players Thursday:
May 29-July 14th
July 31-September 11th
Sign your team up today by calling 218-842-5185 or stop by The Depot on Hwy 59 in Erhard. $20 Per team sign up $2 per person per night. 100% payback.
If you have a community event for the Community Bulletin Board, email studio@ottertalk.media
Food & Festivities
Long Bridge Bar, Grill & Marina (Detroit Lakes): Check out the Pepper Jack Slaw Dog, a 1/4 lb all beef hot dog served on a poppy seed bun with sweet chili sauce, spicy pepper jack cheese, and topped with coleslaw.
Knotty Pine (Elbow Lake): Offering great food, cold drinks, and fantastic service. It’s Create-Your-Own-Pasta time - your choice of pasta, protein, sauce and veggies!
Garden Bar (Alexandria): Locally owned, The Garden Bar is committed to providing its guests with a memorable dining experience through fresh and eclectic menu options, an extensive wine and beer list and hand-crafted cocktails. Celebrate Truffle Day and try the Pomme Frites, which are hand-cut, then topped with gruyere, bacon, scallions and truffle aioli.
Want Otter Talk to highlight a local musician or upcoming gig? Email studio@ottertalk.media
Happy Tuesday Everyone! Feel free to like, share and or comment!
Please tune in tomorrow for more local lakes area tunes, totally tubular tales, and some small-town smiles.
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