Steve Fernlund and The Long Way Home

Real estate, the selling and buying of it, is on my mind lately. In addition to the ongoing Swedish Death Cleaning the Bohunk and I are engaged in we are considering where we will live in our later years. I mentioned in a previous column that my Mazda Scinta RX-8, which I bought when I was in my 50s, was my end-of-life crisis car--either it would die or I would. Life changes forced me to sell it ten years ago. Similarly, when we bought our house on the ridge in Cook County, both of us thought it would be our last house. We’re not so sure now that we’re in our 70s.  One Sunday, early in 2016, the Bohunk was working in the kitchen of our house in Swansea, IL and I was reading the paper on the living room couch. Out of the blue, she said, “I want to move back to the North Shore when we retire.” “Where will I go?” I said, a bit of panic in my voice. “You can come with me if you want,” she purred. The consulting I was doing could be done remotely. With Social Security eligibility just m...

It appears that I’ve made it through another winter relatively unscathed. Thanks to ibuprofen, I moved all the snow we had and almost six cords of firewood without injury or strain. I only fell once, tripping on one of the porch steps, leaving me with a slightly strained wrist and a massively strained ego. Despite winter's best efforts, being alert and wearing anti-slip devices on my boots meant I didn’t slip and fall outdoors—hips intact. The Bohunk fared pretty well. About a month ago, though, she slipped on ice at the bottom of the main stairs off the porch. She grabbed the handrail, which broke loose, and she bounced on her keister. Nothing was damaged except her pride and the handrail bracket. Still, she earned a bruise that resembled an extensive Rorschach test on the part of her anatomy that meets a chair. Reflecting on my 71st winter, I am emotionally devastated by the national and global events of the last three months. The reactions of people I know, who seem to cheer on ...

In a recent recorded interview, President Trump said that “tariff” is the most beautiful word in the dictionary and that it is his favorite word.  Some of my civics and history teachers in the 1960s may have tried to teach us about tariffs, but I don’t recall ever hearing the word until 1972, and it wasn’t used the way it is bandied about today. Trump’s effusive praise and defense of the word sent me on a mission to untangle the threads of misunderstanding surrounding the words "tariff," "traffic," and "cabotage." After reading this, you may think I have too much time on my hands, but I’d be delighted if my perspective could clarify things for you. It's important to note that tariffs have been a part of international trade for centuries, with their use and impact evolving over time. Toward the end of 1972, I entered The College of Advanced Traffic course at Humboldt Institute in south Minneapolis. My dad thought I could become a rate clerk, a relativel...

Opening another box the other day, the Bohunk found a small treasure from my boyhood that spoke to what was important to me. It is three yellow boxes, two Matchbox Series cars (a Mercedes Coupe and a fire truck), and a Dinky Toys Ford Anglia. The toys are like new, and the boxes are reasonably intact. A quick internet search showed me they were collectible but not expensive.  The memories they brought back are priceless. Cars defined me back then. I constantly surprised my dad when I correctly answered his question, “What kind of car is that?” From Edsels to Town Cars, I could tell the manufacturer, year of production, and other meaningless trivia at a glance. I was fascinated with planes, trains, and automobiles. But cars could take a young man anywhere, at any time. Plus, they were cool. When I was five or six, I had the exhilarating experience of riding in the backseat of my Aunt Vona’s Austin Healy 3000, a moment that fueled my passion for cars. She seemed like the coolest aunt...