Another year has gushed through the culvert of time, leaving behind a scoured gully along with some unexpected and pleasant flotsam.

The year 2025 began with my wife and I watching the famous ball drop in Times Square. Not in person, of course. We viewed it on TV, awakening from our prebedtime naps just in time to witness the blizzard of confetti and the singing of “Auld Lang Syne.” The meaning of that song’s title is as clear as a cup of mud.

We had good reasons to be tired: we were in Kansas City, visiting our four-year-old grandson. Anyone who has spent time with a preschooler knows that they are human dynamos, perpetual motion and noise-making machines. It’s exhausting to just be in the same room as them.

Speaking of entertainment, I attended my first circus in April. I liked the elephants best and wanted to take one home, but my wife vetoed the idea. It’s just as well. I can’t imagine how much hay a pachyderm would burn through in a year. And cleaning up after it would be a jumbo job.

The trapeze artists were very impressive, although I wonder what type of joint issues they will face later in life. I’m at the age where a guy thinks about such things.

Speaking of which, my wife underwent her second knee replacement surgery in June. The operation went swimmingly, and she recovered fully and uneventfully. We are at the age where our phone’s camera rolls include pictures of x-ray images of new joints that have recently been installed.

Speaking of summertime, after a hot, dry start to the growing season we received biblical amounts of rain in June. The culverts south of my parents’ farmhouse were roaring at full capacity after one particularly soggy cloudburst. This is something that normally only happens during the spring snowmelt.

Just like when I was a kid, I tossed a stick into one of the swirling, slurping whirlpools on the high side of the culverts then ran over to the other side to watch it pop out. I would guess that the stick has arrived at New Orleans by now.

Speaking of nautical things, my wife and I attended the Festival of Sail in Duluth this summer. I boarded one of the tall ships and chatted with several crew members. I was disappointed when they didn’t use such phrases as, “Avast, ye scurvy dog!” or “Yar! Shiver me timbers!”

I did, however, learn that “weighing anchor” involves actually weighing the anchor. I also learned that there is a thing called a donkey motor and that the word “cat” means a wooden beam that helps pull up the anchor and not a furry feline.

Speaking of cats, our resident feline, Sparkles, is doing fine. Even though she is well past the age where she would qualify for kitty Social Security, she continues to be a productive member of society. Several times this past summer, we found deceased mice on our doorstep. That was either Sparkles’ doing or the mice all expired of heart attacks on that particular spot.

Our garden started out slow — I gave up on it several times — but thundered across the finish line like a Thoroughbred. We’re talking about more produce than you might see at a farmer’s market. Reluctant to let all those tomatoes go to waste, I whipped up several batches of salsa. I threw some sort of mystery pepper into one batch, and the resulting salsa could strip the rust off a plowshare. After sampling it, I figured out where the phrase “salsa dancing” came from.

Speaking of dancing, my wife and I attended a Chicago concert in late November. Thankfully, the weather gods blessed us with clement conditions. In this neck of the woods, any non-blizzard November day is a good day.

Speaking of good things, my wife and I attended the annual Lutefisk Supper at Lake Campbell Lutheran Church. The smelly, gelatinous fish evoked childhood memories of Christmas Eves at Grandpa and Grandma Hammer’s crowded farmhouse. It’s striking how food can transport a guy through time and space.

The waning days of 2025 found me burning the midnight oil on Ancestry.com. Each green “hint” hyperlink begs to be clicked, sending me down yet another ancestral rabbit hole. I’ve learned some interesting things along the way, though. For example, my great-grandfather Charlie Sveen’s birth name was Karnius. I can’t blame him for changing it to Charlie; I would have done the same.

Dozens of people who passed away before I was born have been added to our online family tree. It feels good to keep them in my thoughts, just for old times’ sake.

— Jerry’s book, “Dear County Agent Guy” can be found at www.workman.comand in bookstores nationwide.