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This week we are going to do something a little different. Every blog post has been a collaboration because Brenda serves as my “Chief Editor.” But this week, Brenda is not simply an editor; she is a co-author!

For those who follow either of us on social media, you probably saw that we celebrated our seventh wedding anniversary this week. Since I wrote about mothers on Mother’s Day and fathers on Father’s Day, it seemed only right to write about the woman who has changed my life more than anyone else.

Once that decision was made, Brenda wanted in on the action, so this week’s Perspective is a little “he said, she said” about how our lives came together.

My only concern is that by opening up a little more about our love story, this blog is going to end up sounding like a bad country song. But what the heck. So many of the people who read this blog have been instrumental in our lives, and hopefully you’ll recognize a little of your own story in ours.

Chad Before Brenda

My family and friends had every reason to believe I was never going to get married. To be fair, I spent decades doing everything in my power to convince them they were right. As my father said in his wedding toast,

“Chad liked to boast that his bachelorhood was intact; his ring finger was clean.”

(And yes, I stole that line from Hawkeye in M*A*S*H)

I also had a little Kramer from Seinfeld in me. For those who remember the episode when Kramer advised Jerry against marriage:

“You can forget about watching television while you eat dinner because you know what you do at dinner? You talk about your day…”

Well, for most of my life, I was perfectly content watching television while I ate.

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Brenda Before Chad

Meanwhile, my life had taken a very different path.

I became a widow in my early fifties—far earlier than anyone should.

I hated being a widow. I hated being the fifth wheel. I hated spending holidays alone. Christmas was especially difficult.

After some time had passed, my sons and several close friends began encouraging me to move forward.

“Mom, it’s time.”

One of my boys even suggested online dating.

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Chad Begins to Mature

I have never been able to explain my emotional constipation, and I certainly never wanted to do a deep dive into my true psychological nature. But after years and years of putting on my big show about how happy I was leading a solitary existence, I finally had to admit something to myself.

While I wasn’t unhappy…

I also wasn’t fulfilled.

The M*A*S*H and Seinfeld philosophies no longer carried the weight I had always tried to pretend it did.

The question looming in front of me became,

“Now what?”

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Brenda Takes a Step

When my son first suggested online dating, my first thought was,

“Oh, No! Not Going To Happen!”

I thought it was an absolutely terrible idea; a horrible idea.

However, after enough nudging from family and friends, I created a Match.com profile.

I immediately hated it. I hated building the profile. I hated describing myself. I hated the entire online dating process.

Most of all, I hated the parade of awkward first dates.

During the next year and a half, I met seven different men. I referred to every one of them as “One-and-Done Dates.” No second date required.

---

As Chad Tries to Mature, He Goes Back in Time

Realizing the life I was living was not producing meaningful relationships, I was finally coming to grips with the idea that I might have to do something I never wanted to admit I would do.

As the saying goes,

“Desperate times call for desperate measures.”

My desperate measure?

Creating a Match.com profile.

Ugh.

For those who have never gone through the ordeal of online dating, let me paint you a picture.

It’s like being in middle school all over again. It’s amazingly awkward. You become judgmental even when you don’t want to be. You’re left wondering,

“Why does this person like me when I don’t like them…and why doesn’t this person I like like me?”

Isn’t that middle school?

Even building your profile is strange. You want to make yourself look good without looking too good. You want to create an impressive image while still looking authentic, or at least mostly authentic.

---

Brenda’s Brave Act

It was Christmas week.

I was lying on my couch feeling a little sorry for myself when I came across a picture of a guy driving a boat while wearing a Cubs cap.

I remember thinking,

“Well…at least he owns a boat.”

So I did something incredibly brave.

I clicked “Like.”

---

Chad…What Did You Say About Authenticity?

This is the part of the story where I have to come clean. My Match profile picture was genuine. The Cubs hat was mine, and I really was driving the boat. But did I own the boat?

Not so much.

I was driving a friend’s boat that day, and I had enjoyed enough sips of Jack Daniel’s that day that I didn’t even remember the picture being taken until I found it on my phone while building my Match profile.

---

Back to Brenda

A short time after “liking” the picture of the boat captain, I received a message.

“Hi. Thanks for liking my picture. I’ll get back to you later.”

Seriously?

I remember staring at my phone thinking,

“What does that even mean?”

---

Chad’s Response

In fairness to me, I had just gotten to my parents’ house on December 23. I simply wasn’t in the mood to deal with the middle-school quality of Match.com during the holidays.

Looking back, I can’t believe Brenda didn’t move on immediately.

Thank God she didn’t.

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Brenda’s Patience and Grace

After Christmas, Chad and I started texting.

Several days later, Chad suggested dinner.

If you know Chad, it won’t surprise you that his first suggestion involved a beautiful Italian restaurant, white tablecloths, and candlelight.

Formal dinner for a first date?

No. Absolutely not.

I countered with a sports bar where we could watch college football bowl games while we ate.

---

Chad’s Response

This lady has definite possibilities!

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Brenda’s Experience

I arrived early and sat in my car waiting.

Then I saw a tall man walking across the parking lot.

I remember thinking,

“Boy…I really hope that’s him.”

It was.

He was waiting in the lobby when I walked in.

First impressions matter.

The impression he gave me simply by waiting there was a wonderful start to the evening.

We spent the entire night talking.

We talked about family…

Life…

Loss…

Teaching…

Coaching…

And how much we both hated online dating.

To this day, neither one of us remembers a single thing about the football game.

Was there even a game on the televisions?

The next day Chad invited me to Greg and Cyndy’s home to watch the Badgers.

You might say the Jones seal of approval was the end of our beginning…

and the beginning of our ever after.

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Chad’s Gratitude

It may be a little cliché to quote a movie when talking about love, but Jack Nicholson said something in As Good As It Gets that perfectly captures how I feel.

“You make me want to be a better man.”

That’s it. That’s the truth of it.

I’m still flawed, but ever since I met Brenda, I’ve wanted to become the man worthy of her love.

She has never asked that of me, but it is a daily exercise to make it so.

The other quote that has always summed it up for me belongs to Lou Gehrig:

“Today, I consider myself the luckiest man on the face of the earth.”

That’s me.

One lucky guy.

Every good thing in my life has been made better because Brenda is in it.

Life has a funny way of surprising us.

Two people who had convinced themselves that love had either passed them by—or simply wasn’t in the cards—somehow found each other because one woman took a chance on a guy wearing a Cubs hat while driving someone else’s boat.

Seven years later…

We still laugh about it.

We still thank God for it.

And if there’s one lesson in our story, maybe it’s this:

Don’t assume your best chapter has already been written, sometimes it’s simply waiting for you to click “Like.”

Chad’s Final Lesson

The lesson I have learned, if I have learned anything at all, is the simple fact that sitting at the table talking about your day with the person you love is truly “as good as it gets.”

That’s the perspective this week.

Until next Friday,

Chad and Brenda

This is the picture I don’t recall. Thanks for snapping the photo Mr. Puent.

A warning: this week’s blog attempts to connect two dots that may not have been meant to be connected. As a writer, I am probably biting off more than I can chew and punching above my weight class at the same time—if you’ll forgive the mixed metaphors.

I recently finished reading Inside the Box: How Constraints Make Us Better by David Epstein, and I immediately knew I wanted to write about it. After all, one of the primary reasons I started this blog was to share thoughts on the books I am reading.

At the same time, Father’s Day is this weekend. Thoughts of my own father—and of all the fathers quietly doing the hard work of raising good kids—have been occupying a lot of space in my mind.

David Epstein belongs in a category of writers that I believe should be read by everyone. His books consistently challenge conventional wisdom and force readers to look at the world differently. Inside the Box is no exception.

The central argument of the book is surprisingly simple: constraints are not always obstacles. In many cases, they are the very things that develop focus, innovation, and growth.

One example that particularly resonated with me was the story of Sheila Taormina. A college class project forced her to rethink her entire approach to training. What followed was extraordinary. She went from being a good, but not elite, swimmer to becoming the first and only woman to compete in four Summer Olympics in three different sports.

Her story reminded me of some of my own experiences in coaching.

Like many coaches in northern climates, I spent years working around constraints that coaches in warmer states never had to consider. Softball teams in Wisconsin and Minnesota don’t always have access to fields in February and March. Weather, facilities, and budgets create bottlenecks that require constant adaptation.

I still remember, while coaching at the high school level, moving every desk and table out of my classroom one afternoon so our players could work on footwork and glove drills because we had absolutely no other place to practice. Looking back, it sounds a little ridiculous. At the time, it probably was. But we didn’t have another option.

Epstein’s book argues that limitations often force us to become more resourceful than we otherwise would have been. Reading it made me realize that some of the most creative coaching moments of my career happened precisely because we didn’t have ideal conditions.

Oddly enough, thinking about constraints also made me think about fathers.

For many of us, our first hero is our dad.

As we grow older, our heroes become athletes, movie stars, musicians, or other public figures. Then something interesting happens as we get even older. With enough life experience, we begin to understand that real heroes are not celebrities.

Real heroes are often ordinary men who get up early, go to work, pay their bills, keep their promises, and put their families ahead of themselves.

My dad certainly fits that description.

I have often said how fortunate I was to have the parents I did. Close friends and family know that my father has faced significant health challenges over the last couple of years. Watching him confront those challenges has only strengthened my admiration for him.

Age has a way of revealing strengths that youth often takes for granted.

Marcus Aurelius once wrote:

“Waste no more time arguing what a good man should be. Be one.”

In today’s world, there seems to be endless debate about masculinity, fatherhood, and what it means to be a good man. For me, Dad was a living example of what Marcus Aurelius wrote.

And maybe that’s where David Epstein’s book and Father’s Day unexpectedly intersect.

Good fathers understand constraints.

Not the constraints imposed by budgets, weather, or facilities.

The constraints that shape character.

Good fathers understand that children need freedom, but not unlimited freedom. They need opportunities, but also expectations. They need encouragement, but also accountability.

A father who never says “no” does not prepare a child for life.

A father who establishes boundaries teaches something far more valuable than obedience. He teaches responsibility. He teaches self-discipline. He teaches that freedom only has meaning when paired with accountability.

In a culture that often views limits as something negative, good fathers understand that some of life’s most important lessons are learned by staying “inside the box.”

The box teaches respect.

The box teaches resilience.

The box teaches gratitude.

The box teaches us that not getting everything we want is often what prepares us for the things we truly need.

Looking back, many of the values that have served me best in life came from boundaries my parents established long before I understood why they mattered. The very constraints I occasionally resisted became some of life’s greatest gifts.

For that, I am deeply grateful.

To all the fathers out there working hard to raise the next generation in an increasingly complicated world, thank you. That work is often unnoticed, frequently exhausting, and always important.

To all the readers out there, I highly recommend David Epstein’s Inside the Box.

And to my dad, thank you for everything you have done for me and our family. I appreciate the example you have set and continue to set every day.

Currently, you are the embodiment of the words from Dylan Thomas:

“Do not go gentle into that good night…
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”

Happy Father’s Day.

That’s the perspective this week…

Until next Friday,

Coach T

There are some topics that make me feel a little inadequate as a writer. This week is one of them.

Historian Gordon S. Wood died earlier this week after being struck by a vehicle in a grocery store parking lot. He was in his ninth decade of life, so while his death is certainly sad, it does not fall into the category of tragedy that accompanies the loss of someone whose life is cut short. Even so, I fear that too little attention has been paid to the passing of one of America’s greatest intellectual minds.

Too often, we celebrate greatness only on athletic fields, movie screens, concert stages, or social media. While excellence in those arenas certainly deserves recognition, we do not spend enough time honoring intellectual greatness. We do not spend enough time celebrating the scholars, teachers, scientists, writers, and thinkers who dedicate their lives to expanding human understanding.

Gordon S. Wood was one of those people.

Professor Wood was among the foremost experts on early American history. His books may not have achieved the commercial success of some popular historians, but anyone serious about understanding the American founding eventually encounters his work. His scholarship helped generations of readers understand not only what happened during the Revolutionary era, but why it happened and why it still matters.

I can proudly say that I was reading Gordon Wood long before Matt Damon made him famous in Good Will Hunting. For the record, Damon’s reference was not a particularly accurate characterization of Wood’s views. Still, it introduced many people to a historian whose work deserves far more attention than it receives.

As a middle school history teacher, I often found myself drawing from Professor Wood’s research when teaching early American history. What made his work so valuable was not simply his knowledge, but his commitment to nuance. In an age when both liberals and conservatives often attempt to use history as a weapon in political arguments, Wood reminded readers that history is not partisan. It is a serious academic discipline that requires careful study, thoughtful interpretation, and intellectual honesty.

Of all the things Gordon Wood wrote, one of my favorite passages did not come from one of his books. It came during an interview with American Heritage magazine.

He was asked:

“Can you give me the most cogent reason there is for us, at the close of the twentieth century, to understand that period of creation back two hundred years ago?”

His response was:

“Historical knowledge is essential for understanding yourself in the present. It’s like an individual without memory. A person suffering from amnesia is a scary, lost person. And a society that doesn’t understand its past, and doesn’t understand it correctly, is going to make all kinds of mistakes in the present.”

“I don’t think there are particular lessons to be learned from any particular event in the past. But what the past does teach you is wisdom—the sense of being part of a larger process. There are circumstances, cultural traditions, histories that impinge on you and prevent you from doing certain things. To be aware of those conditions, to be aware of those circumstances, is important for decision makers in the present. They’ve got to know and we as a public have got to know what our past was like if we’re going to be functioning citizens in the present.”

That answer rings just as true today as it did when he first gave it more than a quarter century ago.

We live in an era of endless information and remarkably little wisdom. People spend hours scrolling through social media, consuming opinions in thirty-second clips, while rarely taking the time to engage with serious scholarship. We increasingly seek entertainment when what we often need is understanding.

Professor Wood spent a lifetime creating a body of work that helps provide that understanding. He taught history, but more importantly, he passed on wisdom. He helped us see ourselves as part of a larger story and reminded us that our present circumstances cannot be understood apart from the past that shaped them.

As we approach the 250th anniversary of the United States, there may be no better time to revisit the people, ideas, and documents that created our nation. We do not all need to read every book Gordon Wood ever wrote. But we would be well served by reading at least some of them and by reflecting on the lessons they contain.

More importantly, we should take a moment to recognize a man who spent his life pursuing truth, expanding knowledge, and enriching our understanding of the American experience.

We often mourn celebrities when they pass away. Perhaps we should spend a little more time mourning the loss of people who dedicated their lives to helping us think more clearly and understand our world more deeply.

Gordon S. Wood was one of those people.

He was an American scholar of the highest order, and we are all better off because of his life’s work.

That’s the perspective this week.

Until next Friday,

Mr. Tuescher
Retired History Teacher

This week’s topic makes me a little nervous.

I am trying to pay tribute to a good neighbor, but I worry that somewhere along the way I am going to sound like Mister Rogers singing, “Won’t You Be My Neighbor?” or perhaps like a State Farm commercial.

Still, some ideas are worth risking a little sentimentality for.

The truth is, I am not a particularly good neighbor.

I am not a bad neighbor, either. I can be a friendly neighbor. A pleasant neighbor. A neighbor who waves from the driveway and enjoys a conversation at the mailbox. But when it comes to the practical skills that often define great neighbors—fixing things, building things, repairing things—I fall woefully short.

I am not especially handy.

In fact, if a project requires tools, measurements, mechanical knowledge, or anything beyond locating the correct end of a screwdriver, I am usually in trouble.

And that is why I am so grateful for people who possess those skills.

Recently, Brenda and I found ourselves on the receiving end of a neighbor’s generosity.

This year we installed a new boat lift at our slip on Lake Petenwell. As we carefully guided our boat toward the lift for the first time, we quickly discovered a problem.

The side rails were too narrow.

The boat wasn’t going to fit.

As Brenda and I stood there trying to determine what to do next, our neighbor noticed our predicament. The remarkable thing was that he was already entertaining guests of his own. He could have easily offered a quick wave of sympathy and returned to his company.

Instead, he came down to help.

After surveying the situation, he disappeared into his garage and returned with a collection of tools and a confidence that immediately suggested he knew exactly what he was doing.

An hour later, the lift was adjusted, the boat was properly positioned, and our problem had been solved.

Throughout the entire process he remained cheerful, patient, and encouraging. Not once did he make me feel foolish for lacking the skills necessary to fix the problem myself.

To be fair, I spent plenty of time making fun of myself on his behalf.

What struck me most wasn’t simply that he had the ability to help. It was that he chose to help.

That choice matters.

One of the things I have always appreciated about boating is that the boating community often operates according to an unwritten code. Boaters help stranded boaters. They stop to check on people. They lend a hand at boat launches. They share tools, advice, and expertise.

In short, they act like neighbors.

Which brings me to one of the most misunderstood lines in American literature.

In Robert Frost’s famous poem Mending Wall, Frost quotes a neighbor who repeatedly insists, “Good fences make good neighbors.”

The line is often cited as proof that boundaries, divisions, and separation are what allow people to get along. But when you read the poem in its entirety, it becomes clear that Frost is asking us to question that very idea.

The poem isn’t celebrating walls.

It is examining why we build them.

Yet every year, someone inevitably invokes Frost’s line to justify another fence, another division, or another reason to keep people at a distance.

My recent experience on Lake Petenwell reminded me that the opposite is usually true.

Good fences don’t make good neighbors.

Good neighbors make good neighbors.

Good neighbors are the people who stop what they’re doing to help when they see a problem.

They are the people who share their time, talents, and knowledge without expecting anything in return.

They are the people who remind us that community isn’t built by property lines, fences, or walls.

It is built by people.

I may never become the kind of neighbor who can repair a boat lift, wire a garage, or fix an engine.

But I can certainly aspire to be the kind of neighbor who shows up when someone needs help.

And maybe, even at the risk of sounding a little like Mister Rogers, the world could use a few more people trying to do exactly that.

For now, I simply want to say:

Thank you, neighbor.

That’s the Perspective from Petenwell this week.

Until next Friday,

Chad

Mending Wall | The Poetry Foundation

Baseball fans of my generation tend to love the scene in Field of Dreams when James Earl Jones says, “People will come, Ray…” and then goes on to explain how baseball has marked the passage of American history. For me, it is impossible not to get chills just thinking about that speech.

In many ways, that moment in cinema serves as a condensed version of one of my favorite sports books, The Joy of Sports: End Zones, Bases, Baskets, Balls, and the Consecration of the American Spirit by Michael Novak. Although the book was originally published in 1976, I did not discover it until the 1990s. It remains one of those books I revisit whenever I become discouraged by some of the darker trends in modern sports.

Like many sports fans, I sometimes worry about where today’s sports landscape is headed. Yet last weekend provided one of those reminders of exactly why Michael Novak wrote The Joy of Sports in the first place.

The NCAA Women’s College World Series is currently underway. One of the programs missing from this year’s field is Oklahoma, a team that has become synonymous with excellence. If you appreciate greatness, you simply have to admire Oklahoma Softball and Coach Patty Gasso.

Coach Gasso’s Sooners have won eight national championships, including four consecutive titles from 2021 through 2024. In any discussion about the greatest coaches in softball history—or even the greatest coaches in sports history—her name belongs near the very top. She is unquestionably on the Mount Rushmore of college softball coaches. I have nothing but admiration and respect for what she has built.

That is why watching Oklahoma play Mississippi State in the Super Regionals last weekend was so compelling.

At first, I watched simply because I enjoy seeing elite athletes compete at the highest level. I had no rooting interest whatsoever. But as Sunday’s winner-take-all Game Three unfolded, I found myself cheering for Mississippi State—not because I wanted Oklahoma to lose, but because I wanted to see an extraordinary story unfold.

Sports fans often overuse phrases like “Cinderella story” and “David versus Goliath.” Those descriptions can become clichés. This felt different.

I wasn’t cheering for a Cinderella story. I was cheering for a great sports story—and an even better human story.

By defeating Oklahoma, Mississippi State earned its first-ever trip to the Women’s College World Series. Oklahoma, meanwhile, had appeared in each of the previous nine World Series. Adding another layer to the story, Mississippi State head coach Samantha Ricketts once played for Coach Gasso at Oklahoma. Sports always seem to create memorable moments when a former student gets the opportunity to challenge the teacher.

But the most remarkable part of the story was Mississippi State starting pitcher Delainey Everett.

In the biggest game in program history, Mississippi State handed the ball to a pitcher who had not started a single game all season. That fact alone is astonishing and speaks volumes about a coach’s trust in her player.

As someone who has spent much of his life coaching, I know there are few things more rewarding than placing your faith in an athlete and watching them rise to the occasion.

Rise to the occasion she did.

Everett threw a complete-game shutout against one of the most dominant programs in sports. Oklahoma had not been shut out since 2019—a span of 399 games. Think about that for a moment. Four hundred games without being shut out. It is almost beyond comprehension.

As if the story needed another emotional layer, Everett delivered this performance on her parents’ wedding anniversary, just over a year after losing her father.

Seriously, how can you not cheer for something like that?

There is certainly no shortage of reasons to be pessimistic about sports today. The economics of college athletics appear increasingly unsustainable. Major League Baseball may be headed toward a labor dispute after the 2026 season. Youth sports continue to struggle with escalating costs and overuse injuries.

Yet despite all of that, sports still possess a unique ability to give us moments that transcend the scoreboard.

The sustained excellence of Oklahoma Softball is a testament to human achievement. But Delainey Everett and Mississippi State remind us that sports can also become a form of human art.

Sports still have the power to surprise us. They still have the power to inspire us. And every once in a while, they still have the power to take our breath away.

As James Earl Jones reminded us in Field of Dreams:

“It reminds us of all that once was good, and it could be again.”

That’s the perspective this week, and hopefully we are all treated to a few more enriching moments from the world of sports as the College World Series unfolds.

Until next Friday,

Coach T

I have heard stories of musicians recording entire albums only to scrap them because the sound just didn’t feel right. I have also heard of writers deleting entire manuscripts because they were dissatisfied with the final product. Until this week, I could never fully relate to that feeling. 

I originally started writing about three issues that, while seemingly unrelated, felt deeply connected to me: our national debt now exceeding 100% of GDP, declining reading and math scores across the country, and the growing efforts by state legislatures to redraw congressional districts to benefit whichever political party happens to be in power. 

The essay was finally beginning to come together when I suddenly deleted the entire thing. 

Why? 

To answer that question, I think of a line from Wallace Stegner’s novel All the Little Live Things: 

“I am concerned with gloomier matters: the condition of being flesh, susceptible to pain, infected with consciousness and the consciousness of consciousness, doomed to death and the awareness of death.” 

As I received concerning news about my mother’s health this week, I also found myself thinking about close friends who recently lost parents—one grieving the loss of his mother, another mourning the loss of her father. Watching my own parents navigate the struggles that often accompany old age can be emotionally overwhelming. My mother and father have lived long, rich, meaningful lives, yet seeing their physical challenges reminds me how fragile all of life really is. 

And honestly, when I find myself anxious or worried about my parents, I also think about those who no longer have the opportunity to call their mother or father. In those moments, I almost feel selfish for taking for granted that my parents are still here with us in their eighties. 

Those thoughts about loss, gratitude, and remembrance naturally led me to think about Memorial Day. 

Memorial Day officially became a federal holiday in 1971, though its origins trace back to honoring the fallen soldiers of the Civil War. At its core, Memorial Day exists to remember and honor the men and women of the United States military who gave their lives in service to this nation. 

Across America, communities still gather for ceremonies, parades, cemetery tributes, and moments of silence. Yet sometimes it feels as though we collectively drift further from the true meaning of the day. Somewhere between the backyard cookouts, mattress sales, and the unofficial start of summer, it becomes easy to forget the real reason the holiday exists. 

The political divide in our country is impossible to ignore today, and in many ways that was what my original essay intended to explore. But as my thoughts turned toward heavier matters this week, my mind instead returned to Abraham Lincoln’s words at Gettysburg: 

“It is for us the living, rather to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us—that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion—that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain—that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom—and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.” 

Those words were spoken for the dead at Gettysburg, but they echo far beyond one battlefield and one generation. They speak to every American soldier, sailor, airman, marine, and guardian who has sacrificed in service to this country. They also challenge every citizen to think beyond ourselves and remember the responsibility we share to preserve what others gave everything to protect. 

Reciting Lincoln alone will not heal the divisions within our country. But perhaps remembering sacrifice, duty, humility, and gratitude is a good place for all of us to begin. 

To those who have served this country, thank you for your service. 

To those who gave their lives for this nation, we honor you and we remember you. 

And to the loved ones we have lost—those ordinary people who made their families, friendships, and communities better simply by being good people doing good work—we remember you too this Memorial Day. 

Please remember to keep the Memorial in Memorial Day. 

That’s the Perspective from Petenwell this week. 

Until next Friday… 

“Everything added meant something lost, and about as often as not the thing lost was preferable to the thing gained, so
that over time we’d be lucky if we just broke even. Any thought otherwise was just empty pride.”

That quote comes from the novel Cold Mountain by Charles Frazier. I can’t tell you much else from that book. I
couldn’t give you a detailed plot summary or describe all the characters because it has been nearly 30 years since I read
it. But for some reason, that one line never left me.

Those who know me well understand that I’ve always had an affinity for quotes. It probably started as a defense
mechanism when I was younger. Since I never viewed myself as the smartest person in the room, quoting people who
were smarter than me felt like a decent strategy. Borrow enough wisdom from other people, and maybe some of it rubs
off.

For years, I used that quote while teaching history to explain the idea of unintended consequences. Every major change
in history — political revolutions, industrialization, technological advances, social movements — creates winners and
losers. Progress often comes with a cost. Over time, though, I realized I wasn’t entirely being fair to the quote, or even
to the idea of progress itself. So eventually, I stopped using it and honestly hadn’t thought much about it for years.

Then recently I read Nexus: A Brief History of Information Networks from the Stone Age to AI by Yuval Noah Harari,
and suddenly that old quote came roaring back into my mind.

I cannot do justice to Harari’s book with a short summary. I simply encourage people to read it. Whether you agree with
all of his conclusions or not, it forces you to think — and right now, thinking deeply may be one of the most important
things we can still do for ourselves.

One point Harari makes that struck me was this: history is ultimately the study of change.

Simple idea. Profound truth.

In all my years teaching history, I don’t remember any professor putting it that cleanly or clearly. History is not really
about memorizing dates or names or battles. It is about understanding how human beings adapt — sometimes wisely,
sometimes disastrously — to change.

As a coach, I spent years asking athletes to embrace change. Adjust your swing. Change your mechanics. Improve your
conditioning. Sacrifice individual comfort for team success. Growth demanded discomfort.

As a history teacher, I taught students that America itself required constant change if it hoped to fulfill the promise laid
out in the Constitution “…in order to form a more perfect union.” The nation only became stronger when more people
became more free — free from slavery, free from segregation, free from discrimination, free from barriers preventing
education, property ownership, or the right to vote.

Progress matters.

Progress is necessary.

But even necessary progress deserves careful thought because every gain changes something else along the way.
Sometimes quietly. Sometimes permanently.

And now humanity stands at the edge of perhaps the biggest change we have ever encountered: Artificial Intelligence.

Harari argues that AI is fundamentally different from previous technological revolutions because for the first time
humans may be creating systems capable of making decisions independent of human thought. Not simply tools
controlled by humans, but systems that begin shaping outcomes on their own.

That idea should probably make all of us at least a little uncomfortable.

As someone who often struggles enough with regular human intelligence, trying to wrap my mind around artificial
intelligence can feel overwhelming. My natural instinct is skepticism. Maybe even fear. It is easy for me to wonder if
what we are about to lose will someday prove more valuable than what we gain.

Jerry Seinfeld may have summarized it better than anyone:
“We’re smart enough to invent AI; dumb enough to need it, and so stupid we can’t figure out if we did the right thing.”

That line makes me laugh every time, mostly because there is so much truth packed into the joke.

Still, I also know it is intellectually lazy to simply romanticize the “good old days.” Every generation tends to imagine
there was some magical point in the past when society had things figured out. But history tells us otherwise. The past
was not some perfect golden age. Human beings have always struggled with fear, conflict, inequality, greed, violence,
and uncertainty.

At the same time, human beings have also shown remarkable creativity, courage, compassion, and resilience.

If earlier generations had completely feared change, we would never have experienced the advances brought by science,
medicine, transportation, communication, or modern technology. We would still be living lives much closer to our Stone
Age ancestors than the lives we enjoy today.

That doesn’t mean every innovation is good. It doesn’t mean every step forward truly is progress. But it does mean fear
alone cannot guide us.

What concerns me most today may not even be AI itself, but our growing inability to slow down long enough to think
carefully about anything. We consume information constantly but spend less time reflecting on it. We react instantly.
We outrage instantly. We scroll endlessly. Somewhere along the way, depth started losing to speed.

Books fight against that.

Books force patience. Reflection. Attention span. Nuance.

Maybe that’s one reason I appreciated Nexus so much. It reminded me that understanding change requires more than
headlines, tweets, reels, or algorithms feeding us exactly what we already believe.

I don’t pretend to have answers about where AI leads us. Honestly, anyone claiming they know exactly where all this
goes is probably selling something. But I do know this: blindly worshipping technology is just as dangerous as blindly
worshipping nostalgia.

Both can distort reality.

From the beginning of civilization, humanity has always existed in a tension between creation and destruction, wisdom
and arrogance, hope and fear. That struggle isn’t new. The tools simply change.

I suppose in the end it comes down to this:
Do we face the future with fear or with hope?

If I’m being honest, some days I lean toward fear. I think a lot of people probably do right now. The world feels louder,
faster, and more uncertain than ever.

But I still want to be on the side of hope.

Maybe hope begins with staying curious.
Reading deeply.
Thinking critically.
Having real conversations.
Resisting easy answers.
And remembering that progress without wisdom can be dangerous, but fear without vision can be paralyzing.

This week’s Perspective isn’t really a perspective so much as it is me thinking out loud and trying to make sense of it all.

So keep reading books, my friends.
The future needs thoughtful people.
Until next week…
Chad

There were a few different books I had planned to write about this week, along with some thoughts on current events and politics, but with Sunday being Mother’s Day, those subjects can wait for now. It seems like the right time to write about mothers instead.

I should probably begin by admitting that I am not really qualified to write a proper tribute to motherhood. A poet, philosopher, psychologist, or perhaps a pastor would likely be far better equipped to explain the remarkable bond between a mother and child. Still, as I’ve grown older, I’ve come to appreciate motherhood in ways I never fully understood when I was young.

The curious thing about aging is that perspective changes. You begin to look differently at family, mortality, sacrifice, and love. Brenda and I are both watching our mothers navigate the challenges that come with growing older. While living a long life is certainly a blessing, it also brings health struggles, uncertainty, and difficult days. Yet even while dealing with those challenges, our mothers never stop being mothers.

Brenda’s mom still worries constantly about Brenda and her sisters, her grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. My own mother continues to care for my father through his health issues while still trying to mother me and my brother, despite the fact we are both long past childhood. I think one of the great realizations of adulthood is finally understanding that moms never stop being moms. That instinct simply never leaves them.

One of the only truly good presents I ever gave my mother was a sketch of Abraham Lincoln as a child with his mother. Underneath it was a quote attributed to Lincoln: “I sure was a lucky kid to have the mother I did.”

All these years later, I’m fairly certain Abraham Lincoln never actually said those words. Most likely, the artist made it up entirely. But whether Lincoln said it or not, the sentiment has always felt absolutely true to me. I really was lucky to have the mother I did.

That doesn’t mean I always appreciated her properly.

Like most boys growing up, I spent plenty of years frustrating and aggravating my mother. She insisted on knowing where I was when I went out with friends. I preferred not to provide detailed updates on my whereabouts. She insisted I sit down and do my homework. I preferred sitting there pretending to do homework without actually doing it.

When I was in high school and thought I was clever enough to sneak back into the house after curfew, my mother would sometimes sit patiently in my room waiting for me to return so she could catch me red-handed. In fairness to my learning curve, it only took a couple of those experiences before I realized I wasn’t going to outfox my mother when it came to breaking the rules.

Mom baked cookies not only for me, but seemingly for half the neighborhood and all my friends. In fact, it is entirely possible that if not for my mother’s baking, I may not have had any friends at all growing up. Her cookies were highly persuasive. Before any of us had driver’s licenses, she also became the unofficial chauffeur for freshman basketball players and teenagers needing rides home. Looking back now, I suspect some of my friends weren’t even interested in the ride — they were just hoping my mom had snacks in the car.

The older I get, the more I realize my mother epitomized giving of oneself for the betterment of others. Logically speaking, she probably should have given up on me a few times along the way, but she never did. Because of a mother’s love, patience, and persistence, I eventually became at least a somewhat decent human being. I’m biased, of course, but I think my mom did a pretty great job raising me and my brother.

At the same time, I also realize my mother isn’t the only amazing mother in the world.

One of the dumbest debates in sports is arguing about the GOAT — the greatest of all time. People endlessly debate Michael Jordan versus LeBron James or Joe Montana versus Tom Brady, and the truth is nobody can ever definitively prove who was the best. It’s a pointless argument. Greatness should simply be appreciated when you see it.

I think motherhood works the same way.

Of course I think my mom was wonderful — maybe even the greatest ever — but I also know my aunts were wonderful mothers to my cousins. My Aunt Mary Lou was practically a second mother to me growing up. I’ve had friends with incredible moms. I’ve watched former coworkers become amazing mothers. I now watch my daughters-in-law doing remarkable work raising children of their own. I’ve seen former students and former softball players, people I still think of as kids, become loving and capable mothers themselves.

Sometimes when I see all of that, I think of Louis Armstrong singing, “…and I think to myself, what a wonderful world.”

Motherhood may truly be one of the forces holding civilization together. The world has always had problems, and we certainly have plenty of them today, but how much worse would this world be if biology, chemistry, psychology — and perhaps God Himself — had not hardwired maternal instinct into mothers?

Mothers shape us. They guide us. They sacrifice for us. They forgive us. They worry about us long after we think we no longer need worrying about. And in many cases, they love us even when we probably don’t deserve it.

So this weekend, I want to say thank you to my own mom for everything she has done for me throughout my life. I love you, Mom.

And to all the mothers out there trying every day to raise good sons and daughters in a world that often seems to work against your best efforts — thank you. The work you do matters more than words can properly express.

Maybe if all of us paid just a little more attention to what our mothers taught us, this world would become a little better place.

That’s the Perspective from Petenwell this week.

Until next Friday,
Chad

Two mothers and a father.

When I first kicked around names for this blog, one of my favorites was Tuescher’s Take.  This week, you’re getting exactly that.

Sports gambling is bad. If you are gambling on sports, stop it!

If that sounds blunt, good.  It is meant to be.

We’ve seen the headlines recently. College quarterback Brendan Sorsby seeking help for a gambling addiction. NBA-related gambling scandals making their way through the courts. And every time one of these stories breaks, I think of that famous line from Casablanca:

“I’m shocked, shocked to find that gambling is going on in here.”

The truth? No one should be shocked because we didn’t just allow gambling into sports, we rolled out the red carpet for it.

The NFL, NBA, MLB, NCAA… all of them have partnered, promoted, and profited from an industry that used to live in the shadows. What once required a whispered conversation on a street corner is now an app on your phone, a commercial during halftime, or a scrolling ticker during the game.

It’s everywhere, and that’s the problem.

Now, I know what some of you are thinking, “Wait a second, you go to Las Vegas.”

You’re right. I do. I enjoy a little blackjack, and I’ll sit down at a video poker machine now and then. That’s entertainment. That’s me versus the house.

But sports gambling? That’s different, because now you’re not betting on a game of chance. You are betting on people.

Sport, at its core, is about human excellence. It’s about preparation, discipline, sacrifice, and the pursuit of greatness. It’s a pitcher grinding through the late innings. A point guard managing the final possession. A kicker trying to make the game winning kick as the final seconds tick off the clock.

It’s competition at its purest.

And when we reduce that to point spreads, prop bets, and parlays, we cheapen it. We turn something meaningful into something transactional.

We stop watching the game for the game, along with all the beauty that the game provides, and we simply start watching it for the bet.

Even worse, we’re creating an environment where the integrity of competition is constantly under pressure. When money is attached to every play, every call, every outcome, the temptation—and the consequences—grow.

Let’s be clear about this, ESPN and the major networks aren’t helping. When pregame shows start sounding more like betting analysis than sports coverage, we’ve lost the plot.

Now, I will admit that there is a libertarian streak in me. I don’t love being told what I can and can’t do by the government.

But just because something is legal, that does not make it right, and we don’t have to make something illegal to do the right thing.

We’ve normalized something that shouldn’t be normal.

We’ve commercialized something that should be respected and re.

In the process of making sports gambling ubiquitous, we are losing a lot of what makes sports special in the first place.

We can do better.

We should expect better.

Because sports deserve better.

That’s my take.

—Coach T
Perspective from Petenwell

Until next Friday…

A Personal Intersection of Education and Technology

As spring seems to have sprung here at Lake Petenwell, my work shifts from being a substitute teacher to working in caddie services at Sand Valley Golf Resort. As my work transitions, it seems proper to tell the story of my transition back into the classroom after nearly two decades away.

When we moved back to Wisconsin, I quickly realized something important: winter and golf are not exactly compatible here. To fill those winter days (and perhaps to feel useful), I decided to step back into education and work as a substitute teacher. I was confident that I still had the requisite skills to teach. After all, it had to be like riding a bike, right?

My first assignment was to be a junior high social studies teacher.  Perfect! Or at least so I thought. Could there be a better way for me to get back in the teaching game than as a social studies teacher? No way.

When I arrived for the first day, I had to laugh because I genuinely had “first day of school” jitters.  Suddenly, I realized just how long it had been since I had taught. As a coach, you always consider yourself a teacher, but the fact is coaching is different from classroom teaching.

I checked in with the office staff and was greeted warmly. They gave me a rundown of the things I should know since I was new to the school, and they showed me to the classroom where I would be teaching that day.

Taking a seat at the teacher’s desk, I read the sub notes and lesson plans. I instantly became excited because the lesson that day was about Ancient Rome. “What luck!” I thought, “These kids don’t know how lucky they are to have me come in and teach them about the how Rome went from Republic to Empire.” I was feeling confident, perhaps a little too confident.

As students started to enter the room, I greeted them warmly, trying to create a favorable first impression. Some students seemed curious by this new person standing in their classroom, while others looked at me with an expression of indifference more than curiosity.

After the bell rang, the morning announcements read, and The Pledge of Allegiance recited, I introduced myself to the first period class. As I was giving the students my mini biography, I quickly ascertained they were not interested in my past life as a teacher, so I decided it was best to jump right to the lesson.

The lesson plan clearly stated to read these instructions, “Take out your notebook and start working on…” so I read those instructions. Suddenly, I realized there was a genuine problem. The students, in mass, all started to take out computers, not notebooks. My mind started racing. “What do these kids think they are doing?” I thought, “They must think they can pull one over on this “new” substitute. Well, they’ve got another thing coming.”

“Stop!” I yelled.

At that moment the students, taken by surprise by the tone and volume of my voice, stopped and looked at me with mass confusion.

“I told you to take out your notebooks,” I said, determined to establish an orderly classroom. 

As the bulk of the classroom still looked at me in stunned silence, one young lady slowly raised her hand.

“Yes?” I asked.

“Mr. Tuescher, the assignment is in our Chromebooks. That’s how we do the work… and that’s how we turn in the assignment.”  

At that moment, the Roman Republic didn’t fall, I did. I went from confident teacher to historical artifact.

“Of course you do,” I replied because what else could I say.  The class resumed getting their Chrome Notebooks out and I recalibrated. The rest of the day went surprisingly normal.

That moment has stuck with me. As I have subbed through the year, I have realized that while aspects of teaching feel exactly like it did two decades ago, other parts, especially technology, has changed.  Maybe, I need to be more open to changing as well. Maybe.

Besides this moment of personal embarrassment, my biggest take away from being back in the classroom is how much excellent work teachers are doing out in this world.  To those teachers who I worked with in the past, and to those teachers I have been able to meet this year, I commend you. Keep fighting the good fight.

That’s the perspective from Petenwell this week, and hopefully day one at Sand Valley doesn’t involve me yelling at golfers for no apparent reason. If you enjoyed reading this, please pass it along. I am confident former coworkers, former players, and especially former students will enjoy my moment of misery.

Remember, while empires and republics fall, so do substitute teachers that don’t understand Chromebooks.

Until next Friday,

“Mr. Tuescher”