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Beyond the Baseline: Understanding Tennis Elbow

By
Guest Columnist
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A few years ago, I was helping with my son’s baseball team. One day, for a routine practice, my role was to hit fly balls for the boys to catch. While I was confident at hitting fly balls, to make things easier for me, I was handed a racquet that, with a fairly easy swing, would launch the baseballs out to the boys. However, after 20 minutes, my elbow was getting sore. More groups of boys needed to rotate through and catch fly balls, so I kept at it. I swung the racquet and the baseballs flew to the outfield over and over. In the end, after less than an hour, my elbow was shot.

I was experiencing lateral epicondylitis, or tennis elbow. It hurt on the lateral, or outside, part of my elbow, and while it did not hurt that bad, it was almost debilitating for certain movements. I took some ibuprofen, avoided certain activities, and needed to give it time to heal.

Lateral epicondylitis, which now could also be called “pickleball elbow” with the big increase in pickleball players, is an over-use injury of the tendons at the elbow. Caused by any repetitive use of the forearm muscles, microscopic tears can form which cause pain at the insertion where the tendons attach to the bone at the elbow, known as the lateral epicondyle. The cause is not just limited to sporting activities. Manual laborers, painters, gardeners pulling weeds, musicians, and anyone doing an activity repetitively and more than their body is used to doing, can be susceptible to this injury. Golfers can experience a similar injury, but one that affects the inside part of the elbow, causing medial epicondylitis.

One of the keys to recovery is paying attention to your body and avoiding activities that cause the pain. Pushing through may make it worse and make recovery last longer. Non-steroidal anti-inflammatories such as ibuprofen may help with the pain, as well as icing, stretches, and physical therapy. Some people may find benefit from using a brace wrapped around the forearm muscles, taking pressure off of the tendons. Rarely, steroid injections or an injection of plasma-rich protein may be used, although these are not without some risk. Other treatments can also include ultrasound and shock wave therapy.

Thankfully, most cases will subside on their own with time. However, it can take a lot of time, oftentimes several months and possibly up to two years. In very rare cases, surgery to remove damaged tissue may be an option.

In my case, the pesky elbow pain lingered for at least six months. This was all because of less than an hour of using a racquet that I refuse to ever use again. I am happy to hit fly balls and I still do, but give me the baseball bat, please.

Dr. Andrew Ellsworth is a Family Medicine Physician at Avera Medical Group Brookings in Brookings, SD. He serves as one of the Prairie Doc Volunteer Hosts during its 24th Season providing Health Education Based on Science, Built on Trust. Follow The Prairie Doc® at www.prairiedoc.org Facebook, Instagram, YouTube, and Tik Tok. Prairie Doc Programming includes On Call with the Prairie Doc®, a medical Q&A show (most Thursdays at 7pm on YouTube and streaming on Facebook), 2 podcasts, and a Radio program (on SDPB, Sundays at 6am and 1pm).

Wheat Scoop: Quality, Logistics and Trust Keep Mexico as Top U.S. Wheat Buyer

By
Guest Columnist
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Kansas Wheat

Contact: Marsha Boswell, [email protected]

Wheat Scoop: Quality, Logistics and Trust Keep Mexico as Top U.S. Wheat Buyer

For the audio version, visit kswheat.com.

Kansas farmers understand better than most how the grain they grow connects to tables around the world. That perspective was front and center when Gary Millershaski, a producer from Lakin and U.S. Wheat Associates vice chairman, joined a recent supervisory mission to Mexico. Millershaski’s involvement underscored the direct link between Kansas hard red winter wheat and the demand from Mexican mills and bakeries. His presence in conversations with millers highlighted the responsibility Kansas farmers carry to grow high-quality wheat that not only feeds local communities but also sustains key export partners like Mexico.

 

From treats like churros to daily staples like bolillo bread, Mexican consumers love wheat-based foods. High-quality U.S. wheat is the critical ingredient for these staples, but strong partnerships between U.S. wheat farmers and their Mexican customers are what truly keep Mexico as the top U.S. wheat market. U.S. Wheat Associates (USW) leaders explored the important link between quality, logistics and relationships during a recent supervisory mission to Mexico.

 

“As I’ve traveled across the United States and met with wheat producers, I’ll occasionally get asked whether wheat quality still matters to international flour millers,” said Mike Spier, USW president and CEO. “After visiting Mexico, I can confidently say that quality remains essential.”

 

Mexico is consistently the largest buyer of U.S. wheat, importing an average of 3.56 million metric tons (MMT) (130.8 million bushels) each year, based on the five-year average. As of August 28, 2025, sales this marketing year are up 24% from last year at this time at 2.12 MMT (77.9 million bushels).

 

Quality Remains Essential for Mexican Millers

 

From sprawling Mexico City to dynamic Guadalajara, Spier, along with Gary Millershaski, USW vice chairman and farmer from Kansas, and Brian Liedl, USW vice president of overseas operations, visited mills, bakeries and transportation facilities in late August. Together, the trio met with owners and decision-makers from mills that represented more than 80% of Mexico’s total milling capacity. At every stop, the team heard about the importance of U.S. wheat to their businesses.

 

“Every single person we met with emphasized how critical high-quality wheat is to their operations and to meeting the specifications and expectations of their baking customers,” Spier said. “It’s clear that U.S. wheat producers’ commitment to growing quality wheat continues to resonate in Mexico and drive demand in this vital export market.”

 

Spier emphasized Mexican customers know that the quality they need starts with the work of farmers like Millershaski, who echoed the positive sentiment for U.S. wheat like the U.S. hard red winter (HRW) wheat he grows on his farm, noting it was “repeated everywhere we went.”

 

Exploring Top-Notch Mexican Mill Investments

 

The Mexican milling market is both sophisticated and large, as the USW leaders observed. Spier noted the mills are as state-of-the-art as those in other top U.S. wheat importing countries. Liedl emphasized investments in transportation efficiencies to keep U.S. wheat flowing to Mexico efficiently and cost-effectively. Even the local bakeries are focused on how to keep their products top-notch.

 

One of the bakeries the trio visited employs a highly skilled artisan baker that could individually produce as many as 7,000 bread units per day. Just down the street from a training center, bakery owners and staff contacted USW for advice on how to adjust production of their bolillo bread – a bread roll traditionally used for making sandwiches in Mexico. After working with the bakery and making some slight changes to their formulation and process, product quality and sales improved. It was hard for the trio to get a really good look at the loaves, as they were flying off the shelf from regular shoppers.

 

Relationships and Trust Matter in Mexico

 

The cornerstone of this partnership with Mexico is trust, built on years of dedicated collaboration between U.S. wheat farmers, USW staff and Mexican millers and bakers. At each meeting, the leaders observed that these strong relationships are not just transactional, but personal. While the Mexican market is sensitive about sharing information, USW has kept an open working relationship by providing transparent information on each year’s crop and individualized technical support. As a result, USW is seen as a trusted collaborator.

 

“It was really impressive to see just how trusted our staff is in Mexico and the relationships they have,” Millershaski said.

 

He took that faith and trust in U.S. wheat farmers like himself back to Lakin, Kansas. He encourages fellow producers to grow the high-quality wheat that meets the needs of export customers like those in Mexico, even when the low farm-gate price complicates planting decisions.

 

“Everybody needs to pay attention so that we can counter diseases like Wheat Streak Mosaic Virus (WSMV) and raise a crop that is going to be higher in protein and higher in milling quality,” he said. “Instead of just doing the status quo, let’s go a step above.”

 

“With continued dedication to quality and close partnerships, we can make sure U.S. wheat remains the preferred choice in top markets like Mexico, a win-win for us as growers and our customers.”

“Old Iron” speaks memories

By
Milo Yield
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Thayne Cozart
Milo Yield

Last week, I fantasized about the conversations “Old Iron” might have if it could talk. That was all in imaginative fun.

So, this week it’s a bit of serendipity that my friend Canby Handy ran across an “Old Iron” story in Oklahoma that really does “speak family memories” for its owner, Douglas Conrady.

Canby sent me a story about Conrady and his old iron that wuz published in the Oklahoma Living magazine. Giving credit, it wuz written by Hayley Leatherwood.

The gist of the story is that Conrady, from Wakita, Okla., has spent his “fun” time during the past few decades tracking down old tractors and farm machinery that wuz bought and used by his ancestors — and then restoring the “old iron” to working condition and putting it to work in his little farm.

Conrady, an engineering technician for the Alfalfa Electric Cooperative, can tell you what his grandfather paid for a tractor in 1941 — $982 — and he’s got the checks and contract to prove it. Apparently, his Grandpa never threw anything away and the written record speaks clearly.

That tractor, a 1941 John Deere Model D — a Johnny Popper — is still with the family. More remarkably, it’s still running.

Conrady’s interest in mechanical things traces back to his high school years when he discovered fun in nuts and bolts. He remembers clearly the first time he helped dig out the 1941 D from where it sat “retired” on the family farm near Wakita. He, his dad, uncle and grandpa restored it in 1993, launching what would become a lifelong obsession.

The Model D wasn’t the only green machine to capture his attention. His collection now includes tractors spanning from 1930 to 1962, many with personal ties. These include his maternal grandfather’s 1936 D, now paired with a plow from his wife’s family. Another came from his grandfather’s extended family. And yet another was restored five years ago after a conversation with his uncle.

The family legacy is preserved in paint and spark plugs and it’s alive in the work Conrady and his dad do together. They enjoy the restoration work on the family’s “old iron.”

Then last summer, Conrady took things up a notch. He fired up a tractor, hooked it to a 1940s combine, and took it out to harvest a field of wheat outside Wakita. The combine, an Allis-Chalmers Model 40, holds just 11 bushels of grain. Built before World War II, it threshed wheat just as well as it did 80 years ago.

For fun, he posted the impromptu harvest on Facebook and the community’s response was immediate. So next time he “went public,” and 50 people came to watch Conrady and his restored combine harvest just one acre. It got rave reviews.

The combine, which he bought at auction from a relative of his wife’s family, likely cost $345 when it was brand new. Out of 15,000 made, only a handful are still in operation. But using it means repairing it, too. When one of the wooden bats on the header broke, he didn’t look online for a replacement — he made it himself.

The harvest and other public outings provides a slice of pioneer life that comes alive with blacksmithing, plowing, threshing, and saw-milling. It’s a reminder that progress doesn’t always mean forgetting where you came from.

Conrady concluded his story with this quote: “These tractors will outlive me — and, honestly, I’d be OK with that.” The “Old Iron” in the Conrady family keeps speaking.

***

Conrady’s mention of an old Allis-Chalmers combine made a part of my childhood speak to me. The first combine the Yield family bought new wuz an AC All-Crop Harvester with a 5-foot header and canvass feeder. That old combine harvested all regular crops excellently, but I recall it also did a fine job of harvesting fluffy, lighter-than-air native grass seed. I’m not a gear-head, but I do remember that old combine fondly.

***

While the topic for the week is old and ancient, I’ll throw into the mix ways you can tell whether or not you are an “old” farmer or rancher.

You are definitely an old farmer when you complain about the way “that darned kid” does farm or ranch work and “that darned kid” is older than 50.

You are an old rancher when you have the sniffles and you think about the cost and inconvenience of making and keeping an appointment with your doctor, so you seriously consider self-vaccination from the bottle of antibiotics you see in your old dusty refrigerator in the shop.

You are an old farmer when you can vividly recall stacking small square hay bales in a stifling hot tin barn with a hay hook.

You are an old farmer if you can recall using a scythe or a weed whip to cut weeds.

You are an old farmer or rancher, if when you turn the bulls out with the heifers, you sadly think about your granddaughter away at college.

***

I read last week about an urban Home Owner’s Association that now requires that if a home owner finds a pile of dog poop in the yard, and the source is unknown, it can require a DNA test of the poo to see whose dog made the mess. That way a fine can be assessed to the wayward dog’s owner. That’s the lunacy that urban life has fallen to.

***
Words of wisdom for the week: “Judging is easy. Thinking is hard. So, think before you judge.” Have a good ‘un.

 

The Mother Road

By
Lee Pitts
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lee pitts

I know exactly when I fell in love with the West. I’ve always been proud to call myself a westerner but an entire new world opened up to me when at the age of five we took one of only two vacations we ever took together as a family (both of them to Missouri) to visit my grandparents on my father’s side. (It was the only two times I ever saw them.) I guess you could have called us “reverse okies” because my father’s family came out to California during the dust bowl days and here we were headed back on the same road, a road called Route 66.

That’s when my infatuation with the West began when we took what was also called The Migrant Road and the Road of Flight. It was a two lane mostly asphalt highway that stretched from LA to Chicago. Route 66 introduced me to parts of the West I’d never seen and I loved every minute of it. The Mother Road became so famous there was even a popular television show I never missed called Route 66 that featured two guys in their Corvette who, “Got their kicks on Route 66.”

Route 66 was also called “America’s Main Street” because the empty intervals were broken by trading posts, gas stations, motels and restaurants selling everything from “Genuine” Indian moccasins made in Japan, to petrified wood salt and pepper shakers. At Arizona and New Mexico Indian trading posts you could buy Kachina dolls, cowboy hats and belts, long horns from real Longhorns and in Texas and Oklahoma it was tiny vials of black crude.

Route 66 was littered with huge and unique billboards that advertised gila monsters and mountain lions just 30 miles down the road and real rattlesnakes in Santa Rosa, New Mexico. The Jackrabbit Trading Post billboards featured huge jackrabbits telling the kids in the backseat that they should nag their parents to pull in so they could buy “authentic” feathered headdresses and cap guns. Further down the road in Post, Texas, you could stop to see a real jackalope, a cross between a jackrabbit and an antelope. I still have a postcard of a cowboy mounted on one. And who could forget the Burma Shave signs that chopped up funny messages in multiple signs divided by miles of highway like the one that said, “Don’t hang your arm out too far… It might go home in another car…. Buy Burma Shave.”

Gas stations were an oasis on Route 66 and even before the car stopped rolling the car doors would fly open and everyone would head for the restrooms. I’d never heard of Whiting Brothers gas stations before that were advertised on long yellow signs. Nor had I seen a Mohawk, DX, Horn Brothers, Skelly, Hedges, or Phillips 66 station where they not only washed your windows, they checked your oil and the pressure in your tires, offered free ice for your ice chest and they’d fill your water bag hanging off your front bumper that most cars carried in case the radiator blew. All for only twenty nine cents per gallon of gas!

Mostly we ate out of our ice chest but I’ll NEVER forget the potato soup in Shamrock, Texas, the fried chicken at Ptomaine Joe’s Place, the Iceberg Cafe in Albuquerque in the shape of an Iceberg, the Mexican restaurant formed like a sombrero, a cafe cobbled together to look like a shoe, and the orange juice sold from a roadside stand in the shape of an orange. A huge cowboy advertised The Big Texas Steak Ranch in Amarillo and it’s still there today only in a different location. And you can still get a 72 ounce steak for free if you eat it and all the fixins.

Many of the cars we met on Route 66 had a bumper sticker advertising the Meramec Caverns in Missouri or the Meteor Crater in Arizona. My biggest regret was we didn’t stop to spend one night in a Wigwam Village teepee so I could see the inside of one. I also never got to put any change in a Magic Finger’s Mattress featured in multiple “motor courts”. Funny, in two roundtrips to Missouri I never did get to see a single jackalope. Come to think of it, nor have I ever seen one.

But I’m still looking.

Firewood Follies

By
Steve Gilliland
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I used this column once a few years ago, but as fall closes in on us, and I can almost smell the comforting scent of woodsmoke in the air, I think it’s a good fit for this week’s column. Ages ago when I wore a much younger mans clothes, I heated my home with wood. Cutting firewood is hard on the back but was always enjoyable to me, and I’ve had some interesting experiences whilst collecting my winter’s fuel, to include smashing the rear windshield out of my dad’s pickup with an errantly tossed chunk of hard hedge wood.

When I was still in my late twenties, my dad and I got permission to cut dead trees from a patch of Ohio woods that sat well off the road at the end of a long, hilly, winding tractor path. We spent a day cutting and dragging several trees into the alfalfa field that bordered the woods. The following Saturday we again wound our way up the rutted tractor path, looking forward to a rewarding day of simply cutting-up and hauling the now easily-accessible wood. All that greeted us as we entered the field were dozens of neat little rows of sawdust, the only evidence left after someone had cut up and made-off with all our firewood.

A few years later, I found a good-sized uprooted tree in the small woodlot I owned. The hole left in the ground beneath the roots was the size of a Volkswagen and three feet deep. With the tree already flat on the ground, I cut all the limbs and dragged them out of my way, then with the main trunk ready to chunk-up, I started cutting at the upper end and worked my way toward the giant root ball. I hadn’t made it very far when something happened to the saw, requiring a tool that was still at the house. I started to set the saw in the crater beneath the roots, but for some reason changed my mind and placed it on the ground a few feet away. When I returned with the tool, I thought I had stepped through a worm-hole into another dimension or something, cause the downed-tree and the saw were both gone. I wondered around in circles and finally stumbled onto the saw on the ground, but where was the uprooted tree? It took me awhile to realize that removing all the limbs and cutting off the upper part of the tree had allowed the weight of the root ball to stand the remaining trunk of the tree back upright into the crater. Good thing I decided against putting my saw there; even better that I hadn’t sat down in there for a nap!

The granddaddy of all firewood mishaps took place on a dreary fall Saturday while cutting down a huge dead wild cherry tree that stood just across the driveway from our house. My firewood cutting skills were the stuff of legends…. once I got a tree on the ground, but putting it there without catastrophe often eluded me. I clambered as high into the behemoth as I could get and encircled the trunk with a log chain, then attached an old hay rope salvaged from the barn and ran it yards out into the open field where dad sat waiting on the trusty Farmall H. Cutting was a slow process with a chainsaw barely half the length of the tree’s diameter, but a notch was soon cut toward the open field. As I cut on the other side, I motioned for dad to put tension on the rope and chain. The tree began to list slightly, so I cut a bit further then stepped back, figuring to watch our prize topple into the open field. However, the sound of cracking wood was drowned out by the sound of snapping rope fibers as the old hay rope gave up the ghost. Half a year’s firewood teetered and wobbled for a few seconds before crashing the opposite direction across the drive and onto the power lines, putting the whole neighborhood out of power, during an Ohio State football game no less, which was akin to loosing power at the nursing home during Wheel of Fortune. The neighbor’s anger was matched only by the power company guys who had to come out on a Saturday. It seems our firewood heated the entire neighborhood that day…continue to Explore Kansas Outdoors.

Steve can be contacted by email at [email protected].

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