I would rather share in your earnest mistakes

Than be pandered to by a slick talking savior

When people ask about my home town, I always say Missoula, Montana. That answer is spiritually accurate but technically misleading. If I’m being pedantic, my generation of Buckses grew up all over the place: in South Dakota (Sioux Falls, Huron and Pierre), Colorado (Littleton), Montana (Helena and Clancy, in addition to the Garden City) and Maryland (Columbia). But wherever we went, we always boomeranged back to Missoula. It’s where my brothers came of age as elementary kids in the ‘70s, and where my sister and I grew up as teens in the ‘90s and early aughts. It’s the town that I understand the most (which is to say, the town that I still suspect understands me the most). That’s what we mean, I think, when we talk about home.

Missoula is a Western city, and a particularly striking one at that, so when it is praised or elegized it is often in overwrought Western terms. It is a town of lumbering hills that will eventually become mountains, of rivers that (famously) run though it, of canyons named Hellgate. Its history is marked by bold type tales of disruption and villainy (glacial floods so powerful that they created the Eastern Washington scablands; the U.S. cavalry betraying the Salish, Kootenai and Pend d’Oreille at Council Grove; the Wobblies trying but ultimately failing to defeat the timber and railroad barons).

But again, when we remember our homes, we typically aren’t rhapsodizing landscapes that look like heaven or bemoaning human systems that create so much hell. If we’re lucky (meaning if home was a place where we experienced at some degree of belonging) we talk about the tiny moments when we felt most safe. Often at length. Which is why, when the sprawling Bucks diaspora returned to Missoula a couple weeks ago for a family reunion, we didn’t all hike Pattee Canyon together, nor did we all float the Clark Fork or all drive through the Bison Range up on the reservation. We went to the Dairy Queen at Higgins and Strand. The whole lot of us. Three generations of Buckses descending on a place that we either remember vividly or have heard about a million times.

We converged on the Dairy Queen in 2025 because, back in the 1970s, my brothers and their classmates at Paxson Elementary would make a bee line for its red roof and florescent yellow lights as soon as school let out. One by one, they’d approach the teen cashiers and politely request a mistake. The question mattered, but less so than the answer.

It was a dependable dance. A soon-to-be-sticky-fingered child would peer over the counter. An employee in a DQ-issued apron would, in turn, nod and disappear, running back to the freezer to see if there were any mistakes available. Often there were, and the teenager would return toting what I suppose was one customer’s trash, but which was definitely another’s treasure. A small rather than medium vanilla shake. A chocolate dipped cone mistakenly made for someone who preferred strawberry. An unloved banana split (the request, “hold the pineapple,” lost in the scurry of a busy evening). Treats once rejected, now coveted, given for free.

On the days when demand for mistakes outweighed supply, the store would do their best to still give the kids something for their time. Often, upon finding the freezer empty, employees would duck over to the soft serve machine and whip up a tiny complementary cone. The point wasn’t the specific dessert on offer. It was the social contract. Ask for a mistake, and the Higgins Dairy Queen would do their best to make your day. Not just for the kids with straight A report cards, or the Book-It overachievers, or the soccer league champions. You’d get a mistake if you were a classroom saint or an absolute terror, if you showed up with a gaggle of pals, or if friends were hard to come by.

There’s a back story here, of course, but a simple one. The Higgins Dairy Queen was independently operated for decades by one couple, Art and JoAnn Mandell. It was their place, so they got to make the rules. Nobody said that they had to delight neighborhood children. There is, I’m reminded frequently, very little money to be made in wonder and whimsy. But that was Art and JoAnn’s prerogative. And that’s the darnedest thing about freedom. We in the States often talk about the freedom to shun our neighbors, but the greatest freedom of all is the choice to shower others with benevolence when you have no ulterior motive.

I am home now, but I haven’t been able to stop thinking about the mistakes. It’s back to school season, and I would love to report that we live in a world where every child is enveloped in a blanket of unconditional love and delight, but we know that has never been the case, and particularly not this year. In Washington D.C. there are students whose commute to school currently includes navigating Metro stations occupied by armed troops. In Gaza, there are children starving and dodging bombs. In communities where so many of our neighbors come from other countries, parents have to live with the fear of whether ICE might disrupt school pick-ups. Across the U.S., there are new curricular demands— less talk about slavery, less acknowledgment of pronouns, a noticeable erasure of “everyone is welcome here.” I wish we loved our children right now, in so many ways, including the mistake way.

I am thinking about our kids, and the bed we’ve currently made for them, but I am also thinking about all of us. We are so scared right now (rightfully so), and I worry that, enveloped in fear, we might settle for less than we deserve. This feels silly to say out loud (too precious, too small) but I am nervous about the recent lionization of Democratic politicians for the mere act of talking tough towards Trump. This is mostly a Gavin Newsom rant. And listen, I get it. I’m legitimately grateful for his redistricting move, and I understand the appeal of somebody standing up to the bully for a change. Some of the posts are funny. I imagine there are many reading this for whom Newsom’s recent attacks on the President have been a source of great relief (we are so thirsty for hope, we are so tired of Democratic fecklessness). I truly don’t want to take that away from you all.

But if I’m being honest, I’ve recoiled at the constant coverage of these two world historic egoists butting their heads against one another like bumptious rams. And yes, I am particularly allergic to Newsom’s general political project (I have not forgiven him for throwing trans people under the bus, and I recommend you don’t either). And that alone is more than enough for me to keep the nakedly ambitious Governor at arm’s length. I’ll take your new California map, Governor Newsom. Thank you for that, sincerely. But that doesn’t mean I have to elect you President.

But even if Newsom wasn’t attacking people I love in order to advance his own political fortunes, there’s something else about this current Newsom vs. Trump costume drama that makes me deeply uneasy. I worry that we’re still waiting for heroes to save us. Even more so, I worry that we’re waiting for the same type of hero we’re always waiting for to save us. If the problem is a man who loves the sound of his own voice, the only solution we’re ever offered is… another man who loves the sound of his own voice. You remember the Trump line, right? “I alone can fix it.” Newsom is media savvy enough to only say things like that when he’s in hyper-ironic caps lock trolling mode, but in practice, what’s the difference?

And no, this isn’t a lecture about who you should or shouldn’t vote for in a far-off election that I pray daily still happen. There will, if we’re lucky, be plenty of time for that in the future (and it will be exhausting). I’m not comparing Newsom to Pritzker or Whitmer or Shapiro or AOC or whomever. I’m also uninterested in doling out faint praise for ambitious politicians whose rhetoric outpaces their more maddeningly milquetoast colleagues (yes, Newsom is better at sparring with Trump than Hakeem Jeffries or Chuck Schumer, but is that the bar for our leaders now?). If an elected official does something that helps matters, good on them. Diversity of tactics. But it’s not, and never will be, enough.

The choice that matters to me isn’t about Gavin Newsom vs. any other would-be Jed Bartlet. It’s the choice between waiting for any politician to save us (yes, even the ones I love) and realizing that there is somebody in your community who is currently waiting for you. Not the perfect version of you. Not the version of you who has more time or more patience. Not the version of you who is bolder or a better organizer. Just the version of you that responds to the question “will you help?” with the answer “I can’t promise much, but I’ll do my best.”

The thing is, we don’t need your best. In fact, your best may intimidate the rest of us. It’ll make us feel self-conscious about our own shortcomings. We need a hundred million earnest mistakes. There’s somebody in your community that is scared right now. Or tired, or alone, or broke. What they need most isn’t a politician who has suddenly gotten good at social media and loves all the attention it’s bringing him. They need a neighbor. Any kind, really. The one who invites them to a too-small protest? The one who bakes them adequate but not life-changing cookies? The one who goes to the city council meeting and does their best to follow the agenda, even if all the jargon makes them feel dumb? Or who offers to watch their kids occasionally, even if they don’t consider themselves to be particularly fun? Or who volunteers, timidly, for an ICE watch? Or throws an underwhelming sub sandwich at Federal agents occupying their city? Yes, probably, as long as that’s what you have to offer.

And I know that the metaphor is too on the nose, what with the ice cream treats literally being called mistakes. But I’ll tell you what. That night we all gathered at Higgins and Spruce, my older brother— now in his fifties— walked up to the counter and asked the cashier, essentially “hey, do kids still ask for them?” Without missing a beat, the teen behind the window responded “oh yeah, all the time, but nearly as much, we get adults who want to talk about how much they loved them as kids.” And goodness I know that alone isn’t enough to conquer fascism, but it’s not nothing. My kids had no idea I was writing this essay, but do you know what they couldn’t stop talking about this morning over breakfast? How their uncles used to get mistakes, and how that was a really good idea.

What Art and JoAnn Mandell had to offer their community was an ice cream shop. And not a perfect one, apparently. You can’t give out free mistakes if you don’t make a ton of them. But if that made generations of kids feel like there was at least one place that was always happy to see them, without exception, then we can do worse for road maps.

In a couple years, no doubt, politicians like Gavin Newsom will ask for your vote. Some may have earned it, others most definitely won’t have. Meanwhile, back in Missoula, Art and Jo Mandell passed away earlier this year. They were both 94. Art, too, had a request. At the end of his obituary. You may quibble at it. You may contend, in a time of fascism, that it’s too trite. But unlike so many other requests, it isn’t self-serving. As far as one last tender hearted mistakes goes, you can do far worse.

“In lieu of flowers, please be kind to someone today. Offer a smile to a stranger. Say hello to someone passing by on the street. Find an opportunity to offer up a corny joke. Pay some kindness forward as Art often did.”

End notes:

1. My apologies to any Friends who were in attendance at Milwaukee Quaker Meeting this past Sunday. I usually have a rule that if I share a story in Meeting, I don’t repeat it in the newsletter but I couldn’t get this one out of my head so there you go.

2. Since I’m apologizing: Any old school Missoulians reading this are likely yelling out “will you mention that the Higgins DQ was one of the few Dairy Queens anywhere that still made Nut Whips?” but here’s the thing— I’ve never had a Nut Whip. Are they good?

3. As I mentioned above, all this, believe it or not, is my day job (writing and running trainings and coaching do-gooders across the country). I generally offer everything I do for free (MISTAKES, lol!), but I’m also really honest in asking for help. If you’re up for it, it means a ton, both to myself and my family (also: as I mentioned last week, I make subscriptions as cheap as Substack will let me and offer an awful lot of perks).

4. So many of you have already signed up to do a solidarity fast for Gaza with me and The White Pages Community the week of September 21st. Thank you! We still have spots on our “team” if you’d like to join us [and if you have questions, the registration website has great answers, for instance about whether you can do it if you’re not a parent (absolutely) and accommodations with people who can’t fast for reasons such as health, ED history, etc.].

5. A few months ago, I played around with the idea (I shared it on Instagram and TikTok) of a humble little “this is where you can find me every week” residency (for anybody in the Milwaukee area who wants to say hey). The problem is, I had that idea in the summer, when I was with my kids during the day. With the school year about to start up, though, we’re gonna give it a whirl. Every Friday, unless I say otherwise, I’ll be hanging out at the Daily Bird on Center Street from roughly 9:00-11:30 AM. If you see me and want to say hey, great. If I’m already talking to somebody, come say hey to both of us. If I’m not there, well then I’ll be there the following week.

6. Speaking of mistakes I have to offer, I do recognize that none of you were probably clamoring for a virtual movie series about films that I think say something interesting about the past decade, boy howdy have I had fun putting that particular offering out into the world. And so yes, it continues this week. Tomorrow night actually (Thursday the 28th, at 8:00 PM Central). I’ll be live watching Wonder Woman: 1984 (the most depressing movie viewing experience I had in the early months of the pandemic!) on the Substack chat. And believe it or not, I think that’ll be fun, either for you to hang out live during or to read afterwards.

7. Parents: remember that if you feel that your kids’ back to school pictures have been under appreciated, it is my life’s mission to ooh and awww at as many of them as possible. It’s the only universally good thing we do on social media. Just toss me an email that says “appreciate my pictures!” and I will promise to uphold my half of the bargain.

8. Song of the week! This is a very “forget your perfect offering” essay, which of course means I should pick Leonard Cohen’s “Anthem.” And nothing against that song (those lyrics, still the best) but when it comes to Cohen I’m more of a “First We Take Manhattan” guy. Instead, here’s my favorite song about being a real mess and loving other people who are a real mess. Against all odds, you all are my big door prize.

   [As always, the full song of the week playlist is available on Apple Music and Spotify].