Finding blissful moments in domesticity

I’ve been working on a video tribute as a surprise gift for a couple who will soon celebrate their 50th wedding anniversary. The couple’s five children each sat with me, video camera poised, to share their favorite recollections of their Mom and Dad. The siblings grew up in a pretty normal mid-20th Century household: dad worked, mom stayed home, all the kids’ memories are happy ones involving camping, fishing, sailing and ironing.

Ironing, you ask? Yes, dear hearts. Ironing. One of the women, when asked how best she remembered her Mom, told me: She was a great ironer.

At first, the comment worried me. How would a woman who devoted her life to raising five children in a blissful home feel about having her daughter sum up her life through her ironing? Quickly, sadness overcame concern. I thought about how many great accomplishments most women achieve, including women who spend their lives in the home, and the thought of having such efforts overlooked by a daughter who only could recall her Mom at the ironing board depressed me. The poor, unappreciated mother!

I shared the tale of the “great ironer” with my coworker who subsequently shared a family story with me; it seems her grandmother was a “great ironer.” Her granny ironed everything, she told me, even the cloth diapers! It was then that I recalled my mother-in-law, also a great ironer (and a working mother). I admit I was a bit intimidated when I learned my future husband’s mother ironed all his clothes – including his blue jeans. I wasn’t opposed to ironing wrinkled jeans, but she was steaming creases into them. That, I thought, was just a bit over the top.

I consider myself to be a pretty good ironer; after all, there’s a technique to the job my sometimes chauvinistic sons call “women’s work.” (Trust me, they both know how – and when – to iron). I was ironing tonight, in fact, ruminating over these great ironers – the diaper ironer, the jeans ironer, and the great ironer soon to be married 50 years, and it was somewhere between the gray button down and the black slacks that it occurred to me why ironing is an activity that attracts a certain kind of woman.

Ironing is repetitive thus, in a way, it relaxes. This can be a great benefit to a woman in charge of a houseful of children. But more than that, ironing isn’t mentally demanding, which frees the mind to drift. An ironer with a stack of wrinkled laundry can look upon the chore as an opportunity to take a mental vacation from the mundane, to reflect on what’s good or troubling about life, to dream about a far off place that exists, perhaps, only in the imagination. Furthermore, ironing often brings alone time. Accomplished ironers understand that a pile of crinkled clothing doesn’t represent burden; it’s free time, a chance to gather one’s thoughts, to look within, to climb from the den of domesticity if only for twenty minutes, like with meditation or yoga.

You probably never thought about ironing this way, dear hearts. But I’d bet a mother of five who’s a “great ironer” probably has.

My Christmas Miracle

A year ago or so, my friend died. Her passing left her family, her friends, her coworkers, and me, lost.

Not that any of us hadn’t anticipated her death. We had, even though whenever we spent time with her or each other we draped ourselves in a childlike hopefulness that denies the reality of terminal illness. We hoped like children who believe Santa Claus can transcend physics in order to drop a toy at the home of every child on earth in one night. We clung to promises offered by repeated FDA-approved treatments or subversive non-FDA-approved programs. We prayed for a miracle – even a simple, garden variety miracle that, in a broken world seemed within the realm of possibility. Yet, her health steadily declined.

Throughout her illness, my prayers for my friend changed. At first, my pleas were for her recovery. Later, after her brief remission lapsed and treatments got more aggressive, I prayed for God to give her strength, and, I prayed He’d give her husband and children strength too. Toward the end I suppose I gave up on the elusive miracle and prayed for solace for all of us, most especially for my friend. Hours before she passed, my friend said two things to me. First, she said, “It’s so hard.” And then she followed with, “I am not afraid.” Her courage was immense.

In the months since my friend’s death, I have traveled a path of transition. It has been a hard road and many times along the way, I have been very afraid. Whenever I’ve needed courage not to abandon the transition that, I hope, will lead me to a more meaningful existence, I’ve recalled the final words of my friend: It’s so hard and I am not afraid. Her words give me solace because, during transition, there is a death-like process that requires you to you leave behind the comforts of what’s easy or familiar to venture to a land perhaps you’ve only glimpsed in your dreams, like heaven. Leaving what you know … changing … it is hard.

The daily miracle of life, of course, is that we get time – time to heal, time to cry, time to ponder change, time to muster courage, time to reflect back on friends who through their life and in their death, helped you change your own life. A year after her passing and almost a year into my transition, I’m finding change to be less difficult to face; an uncharted future no longer fills me with fear as it did just four months earlier. Perhaps, some of the solace I’d prayed so hard for last year found its way to me so now, with the help of my friend who exists in the past tense, I can craft a meaningful work in present tense and share with her some of the credit.

Last year, my friend’s death just before Christmas erased all of the joy that comes with the season. This Christmas, her strength and courage endures to inspire me. I can glance at the snow just beyond the Christmas tree and instead of weeping that she died I will smile because she lived and because she was in my life.

Imagine that. In a broken world, miracles are within the realm of possibility. Just accept what’s hard and push forward, like her, unafraid.

Milaad Majeed (Merry Christmas)

Current observations

Wind, from the west, 29 mph, gusting to 35 mph. Temp, 14 F. Windchill, -7 F.

Thoughts of Christmases past

It is a fact of life in the northern prairie that on some winter days, you leave your shelter at your own peril. Today is one of those days.

Instead of lamenting the conditions beyond the walls of this old house, I transport my thoughts to an ancient land that exists today only for romantics like me: Persia. Indulge me as I share two of this exotic country’s greatest exports: pomegranates and Rumi.

First, the fruit. One of the earliest cultivated fruits, the pomegranate has been traced back as far as 3,000 B.C. Some scholars even suggest that it was a pomegranate, not an apple, that tempted Eve. In their long history, pomegranates have been linked to health, fertility and rebirth and they have figured prominently in many religions. My late grandmother introduced us to pomegranates when we were children and the fruit, for me, will forever link me to her and both of us to Christmas.

The thirteenth century poet and mystic Rumi (Mohammad Jalal al-Din al-Balkhi al-Rumi), saw every form of human love as a mirror of the divine. Thus, even though Rumi emerged from the Islamic tradition, his message of love seems appropriate to share at Christmas. Here is Rumi’s poem “Like This.”

Like This

If anyone asks you about the huris, show
your face, say: like this!

If anyone asks you about the moon, climb up on the roof, say: like this!

If anyone seeks a fairy, let them see your countenance,

If anyone talks about the aroma of musk, untie your hair [and] say: like this!

If anyone asks: "How do the clouds uncover the moon?" untie the front of your robe, knot by knot, say: like this!

If anyone asks: "How did Jesus raise the dead?" kiss me on the lips, say: like this!

If anyone asks: What are those killed by love like?" direct him to me, say: like this!

If anyone kindly asks you how tall I am, show him your arched eyebrows, say: like this!

A dangerous day on the roads, part II

It's after sunset and almost 68 degrees inside. Outside, the temperature is in the teens above zero, until you factor in the wind. And out here, you always have to factor in the wind. The wind out here blows unimpeded across the roadways, converting the scant snow that fell overnight into tiny pellets that literally sandblast icy roads until they shimmer under frozen sunshine.

Today, we passed quite a few drivers who, we presume, sped their way into a tough spot: the ditch. When you're driving on glare ice, however, it's difficult to know how fast is too fast until it's too late. After our close call on the S-curve, I would have preferred we not take to the roads again. But, we had an appointment at the auto shop in town to get a new battery, so, after the furnace repairman left, we dropped the trailer and rolled the dice again. We took the S-curve at a crawl.

On open stretches, every time I spied Jim's speedometer climbing above 40 MPH, I reminded him that I didn't want to die today.

"Not today?" he asked.

"Not today," I replied. "Not in the cold. Not in the truck. Not in the ditch or by the force of an oncoming vehicle."

"Okay," he assured me.

And now, here I sit. Typing. And the furnace works. So, from the safety of an old farmhouse I send these gentle reminders, dear hearts: Drive slower. Brake when you approach ice, not when you reach it. If you skid, ease off the accelerator, and gently turn into the skid. Stay calm. Pray. I don't want you to die today either. Not in the cold.

Cold, cold everywhere

There but by the grace of God, go [chilly] I.

The words resonate after Jim, I and the dog narrowly missed ditching his 3/4 ton pickup pulling the Handy trailer filled with equipment, on a very icy curve two miles north of the farm. We spun left, spun right, and spun left again while I prayed aloud and he kept himself calm and kept us upright.

We pulled out of the spin, and got home only to discover the furnace was out. Air temp inside: 51 degrees. Brrr.

I don't type [much] under these conditions. We'll catch up later.

The Greatest Gift

It is the winter solstice, the day we in the northern hemisphere receive the fewest hours of sunlight. As the days have shortened through autumn, I’ve curtailed most of my outside activities, with the exception of nightly walks through the dark with farm dog.

Longer nights open the door to more rest, more hours to cuddle with kids, books, hubby, and, sadly, more opportunity to wallow in the vast wasteland that is television. I noticed that TV commercials started pushing consumer goods as Christmas gifts early this year. I suppose I should be grateful I don’t live in Iowa, where for weeks residents have had their favorite shows interrupted by Hillary, Barack, John, Mitt, Rudi and the other political gnomes.

North of the Iowa border, ads for cars, jewelry, computers, iPods, and computer games started running regularly right after Halloween, and after weeks of seeing couples kissing over diamonds or smiling at their shiny new vehicles, I’ve begun to wonder how many people understand that a person’s Christmas doesn’t need to involve spending and debt. I recall the words of Dr. Seuss’s Grinch when he suddenly came to a clear understanding of the spirit Christmas: “It came without ribbons. It came without tags. It came without packages, boxes or bags.”

An elderly gentleman took my hand a few weeks back and reminded me that the greatest gift we can give or receive at Christmas is forgiveness. Deep in my heart, I know this is true; still, it’s hard to hold onto this truth when, even as I type this, ads bombard me via email enticing me to spend, spend, spend.

Fortunately, it’s the winter solstice and the darkness combined with the distance between Four Cedars Farms and city lights is great. That means all I have to do is turn off the television or the computer, grab farm dog and step outside to see diamonds sparkling overhead. It’s a nightly reminder that whatever I’ve said or done to hurt others or myself along my life journey, God loves me and will forgive me. God showers us all with diamonds, and not just at Christmas. It’s just that at Christmas, in the dark, they’re that much easier to see.

Rodentia update

We got it! ...and word is, it was indeed a slow demise.

PETA members, move along

We've tried spring traps, snap traps and sticky traps.

We've doled out globs of peanut butter, drops of chocolate and chuncks of spendy bleu cheese.

And still, the rodent eludes us! We've seen evidence of him in the kitchen, under the sofa, and in the mud room — inside the box of dog biscuits!

We have this tricky little set-up, where we've placed peanut butter inside an empty toilet paper tube which is set up at the edge of the counter. (Apparantly, the buggers like tunnels.) Anyway, if we can get it into the tube, gravity will take him off the edge of the counter right into a basket that it shouldn't be able to escape.

I kind of hope we catch it alive...because after the lengths we've had to go to catch it, I really want it to die a slow, painful death!

Birthday Greetings!

This is Jim, aka, Handy, also known as the hubby. It's his birthday today and so, at his request, I'll be baking banana bread (with chocolate chips), fetching his beverages, and generally making him believe he's king for this one day.

Really, though, he's king everyday. He has to be, because I, his wife, am already regarded around these parts as queen.

The only farm chore Jim is not excused from today is our assault on the sneaky mouse who keeps clearing the traps of bait without springing them! Get the little bastard, Jimbo!

First Light of Day

This is a December sunrise as viewed from the bedroom of a 117-year-old farmhouse squat in the middle of a Minnesota prairie. (The shadow in the center is one of our four cedars.)

The 'Good Book' Offers Insight Into Our Lives

When I encourage people to write up their life stories, I often face objections. People will humbly say, “I haven’t done anything special,” or “Who would want to read about me?” It seems most people have been acculturated to believe only celebrities and politicians have anything worthwhile to say; sadly, this means regular folks too often let extraordinary everyday experiences slip into the ether we call a forgotten past.

To counter the reluctance of the bashful, I tell people it is our stories that link us to generations past and generations to come and without our stories it’s only a matter of time after death that we’ll be forgotten. Without our stories, our lives will be plugged into a dry column of statistics – date of birth, date of marriage, date of death. That’s not a suitable synopsis for a life.

Still, I face skeptics who don’t think ordinary peoples’ lives make for interesting reading. To these people I share this fact: people read other peoples’ stories in the hope of catching a glimpse of their own stories within the narrative. In other words, people don’t read to learn about other people; they read to learn about themselves.

History has given us extraordinary storytellers, famous for crafting stories about ordinary people — Sophocles, Fyodor Dostoevsky, William Shakespeare, Mark Twain, Toni Morrison, Frederick Buechner are a few of my favorites. All of these writers have spun narrative into gold. The greatest storyteller of all time, though, was Jesus Christ.

Using his signature parable, Jesus wove deep, magnificent tales around the lives and struggles of ordinary people — beggars, widows, lepers and prostitutes to name a few. If you’re an ordinary human, you don’t have to turn too many pages in your bible to recognize your story or a find lesson that is applicable to your life. The bible is great literature; when we read it, we can learn much about ourselves.

Differing Perspectives on the Same Event

Memory: it’s the second casualty of aging. (The first is our knees.)

How we remember an event in the past depends upon many things: our age at the time, the impact the event had on our psyche, our desire to relive the event, how often in the future we choose to recall it, and most importantly, what is our goal for retelling the story. When there are numerous witnesses to a single event, chances are great each eyewitness account will offer differing details delivered with varied emotions. Individual perspectives truly are “individual,” and so is the way in which each person tells a story for effect.

You can see a wonderful example of how a single world-altering event is recounted by four different eyewitnesses by looking at the story of the nativity in Scripture.

In the book of Matthew, the story about the birth of Jesus doesn’t even share details of birth. Matthew focuses instead on the “shame” Joseph felt when he learned his wife was expecting a baby without his participation and how the angel intervened on her behalf. Then, Matthew skips right past the birth to journey of the Magi and their encounter with King Herrod, which put Jesus in early harm’s way.

The evangelist Mark doesn’t seem too interested in the nativity either. His opening chapter starts with John the Baptist preparing the way for Jesus, then skips right into Jesus’s baptism. If the crafting of religious tradition had been left to Matthew and Mark, none of us would have miniature crèches in our homes.

Luke, who most people attribute some propensity toward medicine, offers the most detailed nativity story, including side stories from Mary’s family, the “no room at the inn” metaphor, along with visits from the shepherds and the appearance of the Christmas star. If Luke hadn’t been a doctor or an evangelist, he would have made an excellent screenwriter.

By contrast, the book of John (my personal favorite) doesn’t bring us any news of Jesus birth or his childhood. John’s focus is literary and symbolic; John could be a poet. If you don’t believe me, read his opening lines:

In the beginning was the Word
And the Word was with God
And the Word was God.

If the Word is God as John says, I’m grateful to call myself a writer!

Window to a new world

This is the view from the Great Hall, from the inside looking out at the other buildings on Ellis Island, the first glimpse of the new world for many twentieth century immigrants.

The seasons of rural life

There's more ice on the ground than snow, and that makes it easier for pheasants to scour the fields of corn stubble for food. The cleared fields also makes it easier to spot these beauties, but not necessarily easier to hunt them. The crunch, crunch under a hunter's foot will spook the pheasant pretty quickly.

Saturday, I spotted a flock of nearly two dozen ring-necked pheasants in the field across from ours. After awhile, the whole bunch of them scooted into the tall grass near the grove at the south end of the property.

I wanted a closer look, but haven't yet found where the boys put my field glasses upon their return from deer hunting. I had thought the pheasant season had passed, but one of our duck hunters stopped by Sunday to tell me otherwise. He and his dog will be tracking the birds during the last dark days of December.

An old house holds many secrets

An old house makes a lot of noise in the winter. The wood that keeps our roof overhead is almost 120 years old and thus when touched by extreme cold, the result is all sorts of creaking and popping sounds – each one reminding me to be grateful I’m indoors on a night when the temperature slipped below zero.

I’m also grateful that two stories below my bed, down in the scary cellar, a twentieth century marvel – a forced air propane furnace – continues to pump warm air throughout the spacious rooms of this prairie box. It’s an old farmhouse but it’s fairly cozy even though the windows are often so iced over you can’t catch a clear view of outside.

As I ponder the creaks overhead, I wonder about the people who’ve lived in this house throughout its history. Who pulled the woodstove out from the middle of the dining room and patched the hole in the ceiling? What year did the bathroom go in? Who decided to run the floor boards in the hallway upstairs in two different directions? Who replaced the long narrow windows with short ones and who decided the bedrooms at the front needed only one window instead of their original two? And, who set the house facing the road instead of overlooking the lake?

I can only venture a guess at these questions, of course. Who can know the past unless someone in the present takes the time to write up the details of domestic life and then takes further action to save it. Maybe someone once did this; maybe the history of this house sits in someone’s attic in Orange, California. How could I know?

The stories of the past link one generation to the next. In a way, they keep the past alive. This is important for many reasons, the very least of which is waking up grateful your heat comes from the basement instead of wood stove in the middle of the dining room.

Thoughts on Prayer

Committing to prayer can be one the most challenging aspects of modern life. Sure, it's easy to send up prayers in the midst of a crisis, but how often do we remember to pray when everything is humming along just fine? If you're like me, not often enough. Here's a beautiful reminder of the importance of prayer, taken from the great Lebanese poet, Kahlil Gibran:

You pray in your distress and in your need;
would that you might pray also in your days of abundance.

For what is prayer but the expansion of yourself into the living ether?

And if it is for comfort to pour your darkness into space, it is also for your delight to pour forth the dawning of your heart.

And if you cannot but weep when your soul summons you to prayer, she should spur you again and yet again, though weeping, until you shall come laughing.

Today, my prayer of thanksgiving is for all of you who keep visiting this blog.

Birthday Greetings to a Great Fan!

My brother was an only child for four years. Then I appeared and I can only guess at his disappointment over not getting a little brother to which he could pass along his enthusiasm for sports.

Fortunately, Tony adapted to my gender and didn’t let my propensity for all things Barbie to keep him from teaching me about the NHL, the NFL and Baseball’s American League. All throughout the 1960s, our bedtime routine consisted of him, in the bottom bunk, rattling off the names of America’s great sports towns, and me, up top, expected to spit out the name of the corresponding team before I was allowed to go to sleep.

Tony…"Buffalo!"

Me…"Bruins"

Tony…"Cleveland!"

Me…"Indians"

Tony…"Detroit"

Me…"Red Wings"

Tony…"what about
baseball?"

Me…"Lions"

Tony…."NOOOOO. Lions are football!
Baseball!"

Me…"White Sox!"

Silence from the bottom bunk.

To this day, I can’t remember the name of the baseball team in Detroit. What a disgrace!

me…."Tony! Happy Birthday!!!!!"

Winter wonderland

This is winter.




















The river birch.

The vineyard. (It was 70 degrees 3 weeks ago.)

The vegetable garden.























A vertical fencepost.























Fragile fencing.

Note the angle of the icicle. It was a persistant wind.

Solitude is best part of winter season

The farm is a lonely place in winter. The lake has frozen over forcing all the ducks toward warmer climes and as a result, our guest duck hunters have packed up their decoys and their flat-bottom boats and cleared out.

To add to the feeling of isolation is a tree-line bereft of leaves, the lack of dimension on all the surrounding fields, the long nights of darkness and, today, the first of December, a wind-driven snow. Anyone who prefers activity to solitude would find Four Cedars in winter a difficult place to be.

But that's not me. For me, solitude is a tonic that helps me make sense of a world that spins on an axis of materialism. I come to the farm because life is simpler here (not easier, mind you); here, I can revel in my most basic self. The wind, the flat land, even the animals won't ask me to live up to standards that I can't possibly, and they won't judge me when I fail.

Here, I simply exist the same way the dormant plants and tattered buildings exist. Here, deadlines or schedules aren't a factor and this allows my mind to drift like the snow. Who knows where my thoughts will settle? Maybe I'll dream up a story, get creative in the kitchen, or turn off my brain and just take a nap. That's what one can do when it's quiet, here at the farm in winter.

Book, interrupted

In 2003, I embarked on a journey of discovery hoping to find a family I never really knew, the one I was born into. At the end of the journey there would be a book. A year later, I was four chapters into writing when I came face to face with a dilemma — would the fruit of my labors bring me deeper into a family I longed to embrace, or would my words form a barrier that would keep me from realizing my goal. Ultimately, I decided the latter was my most assured destination, so I abandoned four chapters and three months of writing to start over. Version No. 2, I finished in 2005 and it has brought much joy to many readers. But the book interrupted still haunts me. Should I follow the words and see where they lead me?

Here was my opening:

Their portraits hang in oval frames.

His, hanging on the left, shows him striking a pose with his right shoulder pointed into the camera. The angle forces him to crane his head around with a tilt. His grin comes easy — as if it’s been a good enough day that humoring the photographer’s instructions to turn, tilt then hold that smile isn’t an imposition. His suit is neat yet slightly tattered at the seam. The jacket isn’t as old as he; he just wore better. He has two patches of neatly-groomed hair above each ear. The arc of his nose gives away the secret of his homeland — it’s a jewel of the Mediterranean.

She’s photographed later in life. Her hair is white and neatly plastered to her scalp in tight waves that frame a square face. Her jaw tells me she’s one to be reckoned with; her eyes counter with, “I love you regardless.” Her most outstanding feature is her eyebrows; they’re thick and black, an underscore to the pale complexion revealed in grayscale. She wears a frock in black and white paisley. It’s a grandmother’s dress — well suited for woman who was mother to nine, grandmother to 19 and great-grandmother to 45, including me.

Between the portraits which hang behind tempered glass, the first names of their children are listed … Mike … Ann … Louis … Mary … Art … John … Marcella. The inscription that accompanies the names reads: “As they carried their Maronite tradition and Lebanese heritage in their hearts, may generations after them cherish it. Cedars Hall is dedicated to the memory of Betros and Zmeroud Nasseff by their children.” Adjacent to the display case, which is built into the foyer of a modern yet ancient Minneapolis church, is a mural depicting an unnamed mountain village in Lebanon.

I look into the framed faces — Betros, then Zmeroud, then Betros again. There’s something hidden in the eyes I can’t quite decipher. I examine the list of names again. Mike … Ann …. I stop at Ann.

My grandmother is the only one on the list I knew in any meaningful sense, and truth be told, I didn’t know her at all. She’s a faint memory, a series of flashing images and sound bites from childhood: haggling over prices at a garage sale, strawberry picking on a bright June morning, the place she shared with Helene on Randolph Ave., scaling a riverbank to pick grape leaves, hugs (always hugs), and a couple of blazingly hot visits to California. Then darkness falls over the screen and the memory show ends.

I stare at the letters. A-N-N. The lines of the letters rise, then fall, and rise again only to repeat the fall. Her life, what I know of it, rose and fell in sharp angles too. The last line of the last N rises then stops, name over … life over. It’s a hopeful sign if, like me, you believe there’s a heaven. It’s a short name; too short to do her justice. A name should be a melody, a spiritual that revels in life’s lyric. A good name should be heavily laden with syllables and vowels; it should ring of history. Ann, dead for almost 20 years, was more than three letters’ worth of woman.

Suddenly, the door to Cedars Hall swings open and a black-haired moppet dressed for Christmas in red velvet and taffeta darts past me on her way to the bathroom. The din of conversation and laughter swells as the door hangs open which yanks my attention away from A-N-N. I need to get back inside, but before I return to the room I pause a moment longer with Zmeroud and Betros.

My memory show of Zmeroud is shorter than Ann’s. It lasts less than 5 seconds and doesn’t have sound. I see a tiny apartment and crooked fingers filling a dish with black olives. That’s all I have.

Memories of Betros don’t exist within me. He died in 1947; I was born in 1960. He is a complete stranger I want to place in my past but can’t. He’s like the man sitting across a restaurant you recognize but aren’t quite sure from when or where. You rack your brain during your whole meal and it never comes to you and even though you could save yourself all the trouble by just walking up to him and asking: “Don’t I know you from somewhere?” You don’t. You don’t have the guts, after all; plus you don’t want to look like a fool. So, you end up leaving the restaurant and it bothers you all the way home until his face fades into the night along with the sounds that filled the restaurant and the taste of the meat you ate that night.

Betros is that man in the restaurant. He looks just like a man I’ve known and loved my entire life except he’s a stranger locked in a gilded oval frame. Maybe I know him; maybe I’m wrong. Maybe if I rack my brain long enough it will come to me. Probably, I could just ask someone inside the hall and move on. But then, I don’t have the guts.

With a quick brush of fingers through hair, I turn and walk back to the Christmas party going full tilt inside Cedars Hall — a room filled with family, a room full of strangers.

Prayer: it requires focus

Sometimes the only way to hear God talking to you is to remove yourself from all your family members, all your friends, your neighborhood, your television, your radio, your MP3 player, your workplace, your city, your to-do list, your concerns, your stress, your distractions, your ambition, and your desires —— most definitely your desires.

If you want to hear God’s voice, come to the farm. Sit all by yourself aside the lake. Button up, because the wind bites. Wait. Be open. The voice will come to you. I promise.

Doorways are meeting places

Oxford University Press states a threshold, “symbolically marks the boundary between a household and the outer world, and hence between belonging and not-belonging, between safety and danger.”

Merriam-Webster states, “A threshold is a transitional interval, beyond which a new action is likely to occur.”

Between these two definitions – one tinged in negativism, the other in optimism – I discern that “threshold” is, at once, an end point and a place where something begins. Whether what was left behind is better than what lies in wait depends, I suppose, on the reason one crosses a threshold, any threshold. Endings and beginnings join in the same place; of course, you can’t see this unless you’re standing in the same plane as the threshold.

That's a view not easily achieved.

Happiness: it's not on sale at the mall

We’re just a month shy of the winter solstice or shortest day of the year. Today is one of those rare November days when the sun is shining, albeit from a lower point in the horizon than it does when we’re one month shy of the summer solstice.

In the summer, when the sun sits directly overhead, sunlight is concentrated in a small area and the resulting heat is great. When sunlight strikes the earth from a lower angle as it does in November, its rays spread over a greater distance, thus reducing the heating effect. That’s why plants go dormant, days are shorter, and we’re always cold. I suppose you could say the sun is spreading itself too thin.

People spread themselves thin too – especially in the weeks that fall between Thanksgiving and Christmas. Although I didn’t shop on Black Friday (or Saturday or Sunday), I saw the overflowing parking lots and the traffic jams leading into them; I can only guess at the scene inside. It seems the marketers whose job it is to convince Americans the source of happiness can be found inside the mall will be getting a bonus this year. Of course, anyone who looks under their Christmas tree for a boxful of happiness this season will be disappointed. Happiness is a state of being, not a positive consequence to consumerism.

When you buy into the myth that happiness comes by catching all those money-saving deals (which require you to spend money), you risk spreading yourself too thin during this special holy season. And that might leave you with a post-Christmas chill.

Tradition and transition. Can they co-exist?

I was thinking about the purpose of tradition as it is placed in the context of its antithesis: transition.

In our family, Thanksgiving is the most tradition-laden holiday on the calendar. The menu is traditionally American – roast turkey, potatoes and gravy, pecan stuffing, fresh cranberries, homemade pumpkin bread and pecan and pumpkin pies at the end.

Tradition extends beyond the kitchen, too, where outside the “turkey bowl” touch football game will once again test the limits of family bonds. Cousins and uncles will choose sides, lining up with a metro team that will try to outwit their out-state rivals who historically enjoy an advantage in height and weight. Age notwithstanding, all of our Thanksgiving day athletes will stretch and strain – muscles and possibly goodwill – for the privilege of hoisting the "turkey bowl" trophy, a repurposed moonshine crock.

As much as we love our traditions, though, we have to welcome a guest called change. This year, our holiday will have fewer familiar faces: the nephew in Texas, the nephew in New York, our pal spending the day with his Mom in Wisconsin, our dear Jason plowing snow in Michigan, our beloved Lynn who we lost just last December, not to mention all those dear ones who left us years earlier.

But rather than focusing on those who couldn’t make the journey to our home this year, we’ll embrace those who do and welcome a new friend, Lawrence, into our traditions. Yes even the silly one conducted out back.

And so, change brings to our door the opportunity to enrich tradition, to bring to it the influences of our newest guest, a new addition to our Thanksgiving family. And this is what change does best – it keeps us looking forward, to what may be, instead of looking backward to what once was. This is good for all of us; no matter how much we loved the desserts, the victories, and the conversations of old.

A blessed Thanksgiving is my wish for all, near and far.

Fashionistas of the north country

Three deer killed and counting is the report from Michigan's "renegade" peninsula.

Last night while walking the dog, I had a Cervidae encounter unlike I've ever experienced. A brave doe and I engaged in a minute-long stare down from about 15 paces. I puzzled aloud as to why she wasn't running away as I inched closer and closer -- closer than I've ever stood to wild deer. Her mate watched me from deeper in the marsh. It wasn't until the dog barked at her that she turned and darted into the darkness. It was at that moment, when the calm deer became a skittish one, when it dawned on me where the phrase "high-tail it" originated.

Managing friendships through transition

There’s a saying that goes: change, or die. That’s harsh counsel even if it’s physiologically accurate.

Me? I like change. One of the benefits of having raised children into adulthood is that I’ve seen firsthand how humans, as we age, pass through a series of sequential developmental stages. Call it growth if you like. Some of these growing phases, the physical ones, last a year or more. The emotional ones pass more quickly, like the phases of the moon.

When you are able to take the long view of a lifespan (only visible from its far end), it is much easier to see change for what it is – an opportunity to become someone new – someone better. It’s nearly impossible to see or understand this when you’re up to your elbows in the emotionally challenging processes of change. There’s a saying for this too: not seeing the forest for the trees.

I was once acquainted with a woman who believed that, as we age, we want less uncertainty in our lives. The more choices life presents us, the more change taunts us. Her goal: stability. Her ideal: stability. As friends, she and I were incompatible.

I believe stability is a myth. The only certainty in life, death and taxes notwithstanding, is change. The sooner we get used to the idea of change, the sooner we can ride its crest with the confidence of a teenage surfer. It’s not easy, though, and the hardest part isn’t venturing down an unfamiliar street in the dark but enduring the moment that comes just before we step into the night air.

The trouble with change isn’t that it brings freshness and a new perspective; it’s that change involves saying goodbye to those things and people who inject joy into an experience, which soon will be examinable only in retrospect. And there’s the rub. Change signals an ending. This is an obvious consequence of transition, yet it isn’t inevitable. Participants in change must work hard, real hard, to preserve what’s important in their life; fortunately, people drawn to change find such challenges energizing.

Risky business, this farming

Risk — it entices teenagers, worries bankers and gives actuaries a reason to get up in the morning. Farmers seem a bit more attuned to the omnipresence of risk because much of what contributes to our livelihoods remains beyond control. There’s just something about burying money in dirt that screams – NOT A GOOD IDEA! Of course, if farmers were as risk-averse as bankers, the world would starve.

Becoming accustomed to living with risk is one thing; enjoying it is quite another. If you asked me to name risk, I’d call him Tilman, after a neighbor who perpetually wanders onto our property whether he’s invited or not. Living with risk is like living next door to Tilman. You can try to get used to him but, really, you never will.

We’ve drawn up our vineyard plan and measured off each row in the grass. That was our last outdoor task to accomplish before the snow flies. Now the work turns indoors as we search for the best (meaning least expensive) source for trellising materials. The trellis posts will go in as soon as the ground thaws and firms; the vines will go in next May as the last threat of spring frost passes.

Thinking about vineyard establishment probably is why my mind today settles on risk. The grape growing business requires us to dole out lots and lots of money up front, then wait three to four years before any possible return on investment. That’s a long time to wait and a lot can happen – weather, illness, death – in the interim.

Why would I take such a risk? Just thinking like a teenager, I suppose.

Then again, why not take such a risk? Why not bury money in the soil and pray for the right mix of sun, wind, rain and heat? In this the corn and soybean portion of the state, why not cultivate a bit of fortitude just to mix things up?

There I go, thinking like a teenager again.

Don’t fret. I’ve already decided if the pressure gets to be too much, I’m going to rationalize the entire investment. This year for Christmas, we’re all getting high tensile wire and grow tubes!

Community is a state of mind

At a writer’s forum this past weekend, I spied a newly-published history book written about St. Clair, a town located close to Four Cedars Farms. The elderly author was at the forum, selling her book, and as I flipped through its pages, past block after block of text interspersed with historical photos, I asked her about her effort. The project took three years, she told me; if I had been “from” St. Clair, she added, I would recognize many of the family stories she’d included.

I nodded. Not recognizing me as a local, the author asked me if I was “from” St. Clair.

I was tempted to tell the woman that where we come from has little to do with who we are or where we’re going, but I thought better of it. “I’m from St. Paul, but I live near St. Clair now,” I replied.

“Oh. What brings you to St. Clair?” she asked with surprise, forgetting to ask my name or offer hers, or even shake my hand as a welcoming gesture — a hint that possibly my story might someday find its way into a subsequent edition of community history. I kept flipping pages, stopping only to gaze at the pictures. It’s a habit most writers despise; we believe our words carry more impact than the most striking accompanying picture ever could.

“I’m not sure how to answer that.” It was a lie. She was a lifer from rural Blue Earth County; she wouldn’t understand how stop-and-go daily commutes, airplane noise and nosy neighbors chip away at a city dweller’s enthusiasm for the commonly regarded perks of urban life — the parks, the good schools, proximity to culture. Furthermore, I suspect that my answer would have employed the term “escape,” which would only serve to raise her suspicion of me.

One year of country living has taught me most locals are quite suspicious of people like me – city bred people, interlopers who hadn’t inherited rural land so they had to buy their way in, or out depending on your perspective. Furthermore, I wasn’t interested in describing for her the interior changes that occur whenever my car leaves the pavement and rolls over the gravel drive as I approach the farmhouse. How could she, one who’s never traversed a Twin City freeway during rush hour, understand that even if you place on high price on serenity, many among us are still willing to pony up? Sales are driven by emotion, after all; city people understand this.

“I like the sunsets,” I finally said.

Her blank stare communicated more than her 250-page book ever could.

I asked her what the book cost.

“Thirty dollars,” she said.

It sounded to me like a big city price so I set the book down and walked away.

I can never keep these variations straight!

It's November. My car had a layer of ice on it this morning thick enough for the geese to play hockey. To make matters worse, there were snow flurries. Suddenly, I'm reminded of the bag of squash keeping cool in the garage and the smoothness of a squash soup a friend served me last November. I think I'll be pureeing this weekend...

America's collective memory; open to all

First, a math lesson: One aging mother moving into my home (which is full of books) PLUS mother’s two television sets PLUS one missed appointment between me and the cable guy EQUALS one stressed out daughter in need of a quiet library wherein I might hide.

Thank you Mr. Jefferson!

Litera Scripta Manet. This Latin phrase can be found in the Librarian's Room in the Thomas Jefferson building of the Library of Congress in Washington, D.C. Translated, the phrase touches this writer’s soul: The Written Word Endures.

The Library of Congress is the nation's oldest federal cultural institution. It was founded in 1800 when the seat of federal government moved from Philadelphia to Washington, D.C. Its original mission was to create a collection of books useful to Congress; the library was housed in the Capitol building until 1814 when British troops set the building ablaze. Within a month, retired President Thomas Jefferson offered his personal library as a replacement.

Jefferson had spent 50 years accumulating books, "putting by everything which related to America, and indeed whatever was rare and valuable in every science," as he stated about his collection. Jefferson’s library was considered to be one of the finest in the United States; his collection included books in foreign languages and volumes of philosophy, science, literature, and other topics not normally viewed as part of a legislative library. Jefferson wrote, "I do not know that it contains any branch of science which Congress would wish to exclude from their collection; there is, in fact, no subject to which a Member of Congress may not have occasion to refer."

In January 1815, Congress accepted Jefferson's offer, appropriating $23,950 for his 6,487 books, and the foundation was laid for a great national library. The Jeffersonian concept of universality, the belief that all subjects are important to a collection of American legislature, was the rationale behind the comprehensive collecting policies of today's Library of Congress.

I, for one, am grateful for Jefferson's vision; my first book, "The Bond Between Brothers," is part of the Library's collection. In fact, today, the Library’s collection contains books, recordings, photos, maps and even unpublished manuscripts – all readily available to the American people. Much of its collection can be viewed online.

The Library vows to sustain and preserve a universal collection of knowledge and creativity for future generations; in this way the Library of Congress is more than a repository of knowledge. It is this nation’s collective memory -- one that will last long after mother forgets what she missed on television because I missed my appointment with the cable guy.

Yes, folks, it's cold enough

When I awoke this morning I was sure we were still in the middle of the first full week of November and I knew...I knew that Thanksgiving was still a few weeks away. Yet the wake-up temperature had dipped below freezing and that was all it took, I suppose, for those money-hungry grubs at the local ski hill to fire up their snow making machines. So there it was, hovering near the top of the bunny hill. Snow. I saw it through the windshield of my Toyota. Snow. Snow. Snow. Nooooooooooooooooooooooo!

Every day is an opportunity

For people of faith, there are no coincidences.

If you believe this statement as strongly as I do, you might wonder, as I do, what to make of those circumstances that we must unexpectedly confront, like a deer standing on a dark road. What can we make of obstacles we couldn't possibly have seen coming or trouble that gives us no time for anything but instinctual reaction?

Yesterday, I heard a thought on the topic I'd like to share.

We can find ourselves in the right place at the right time (good for us) or we can find ourselves in the wrong place at the wrong time (bad for us). Both scenarios present us with an opportunity to know God. Why? Because, for people of faith, there are no coincidences.

It doesn't matter who we are or what we do or how un-godly we act, the fact is, God set us on a path and he will keep intersecting that path until we take note of his presence, kind of like that deer in the road. In this regard, even what seems like trouble coming our way is transformed into an opportunity for us to become the best person possible, the person we were intended to be all along.

When you think of life's challenges this way, they become just a bit easier to overcome.

Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home

Last week, Jim and I traveled east, far from the farm and even farther from the wide-open prairie where often an hour or longer passes between one car rumbling by and the next. We spent a lot of time crowded into subway cars being shuttled from one crowded big-city venue to another. It was a fun trip, but it’s good to be back where quiet calls home.

It is hard to believe November is upon us already; November, the month when winter calls ahead to let us all know she’s coming for an extended stay. By noon, this morning’s brightness gave way to a blanket of grey downy. There is a biting wind now and all of the trees, except the four Cedars, have lost their canopies. There are still several hundred ducks floating in the lake, presumably safe now that the hunters have turned the barrels of their guns toward whitetail deer.

Jim, in his blaze orange vest, has spent the day mowing our vineyard. The grass we laid as seed on Labor Day is plush and as green as Ireland. The trim today should keep snow mold at bay. When he puts the mower away, it will be time for the two of us to take graph paper, pencil and ruler to sketch our trellis plan. Drawing the vineyard plan now will allow us to price out our trellis materials and get our order placed for spring delivery. Once the ground softens come March, we’ll need to make fast work of cutting rows and sinking line posts.

Other late fall projects include stowing the hammock and Adirondack chairs in the barn, running snow fences along the gully near our new row of spruce trees, finishing the chicken coop, installing the chimney for the wood stove, which will heat the stable, winterizing the power equipment, and clearing the frost-bitten flower stalks from the garden. It will be January before we can turn our attention to farmhouse chores such as painting the ceilings and maybe, maybe, redoing the bathroom.

So, dear friends, we’re back at it at Four Cedars, Jim and I. Back from vacation. Busy as usual, but never too busy to give you an update. Thanks for checking in.

Where else...

Where else but in the country can you toss down a pile of charcoal and cook dinner right on the driveway?

Last night, it was pitchfork fondue, albeit with a small-scale fork. The canning pot sitting right on the hot coals holds the oil and the Omaha steaks taste quite yummy once they emerge from the hot bath.

It may not be heart-healthy eating, but it's imaginative -- and darn tasty!

Sunny Saturday in the Valley

When you farm, you never lack for something to do. Some days, our chore list seems as long as the prairie horizon; this is especially true as we prepare to face the harshest of times -- the approaching Minnesota winter.

But when the October sun decides to make a rare weekend appearance, and it brings with it what could be the last seventy-degree day of the year, the temptation to tour our scenic countryside proved greater than the need to store lawn furniture, mow lawn, or split wood. If you missed your chance to enjoy a sunny Saturday excursion, come along with me as I retrace the day we played "hookey" from the farm.

The heavy rains of September and October have pushed water up and over the banks of our area rivers. This is the Le Sueur River, which spills into the Blue Earth River just beyond the Red Jacket Bridge. The valleys where these two waterways converge and then spill into the Minnesota River, offer spectacular views when the trees are showing good color.

The Le Sueur River
Red Jacket Bridge over the Le Sueur River

After stopping to enjoy the fast moving river currents, we moved on to Minneopa Falls, just south of downtown Mankato. Minneopa is a Native American word that means “water that falls twice.” A walkway extends between the upper falls and the lower falls, which drops thirty-nine feet.

The upper and lower Minneopa Falls

Not far from the falls, we picked up scenic highway 68, headed west toward New Ulm. Before reaching the town of Cambria, we turned off the highway in order to visit Morgan Creek Vineyard, one of only a dozen wineries in Minnesota. In the tasting room, three dollars allowed us to sample ten Morgan Creek varieties. When we finished sampling, we purchased two bottles, a semi-sweet La Crescent variety called Zeitgeist, and a dry red called Saint John’s Reserve. After wandering the grounds, we decided a bit of food might be a good idea before climbing behind the wheel. We each ordered a six-inch pizza from the brick-oven on the veranda.

Morgan Creek Vineyards, South of New Ulm, Minnesota

New Ulm offered us another scenic respite – the August Schell Brewery, the state’s oldest brewery perched on the banks of the Cottonwood River. Unlike the Winery, the Brewery was crowded and the tours booked for hours. There was a wedding taking place at the Schell Mansion and Gardens, below. We weren't sure if the peafowl wandering up the path were invited guests, or if they were crashing the festivities.

We wandered briefly then headed into town, looking for an authentic German meal. We found one at the Kaiserhoff. A Schell's Oktoberfest, on tap, went perfectly with the sausage, sauerkraut, pumpernickel bread and German potato salad.

Annie Oakley, I ain't

Yet.

With a 22 caliber rifle perched against my shoulder, a nuisance fur-bearing rodent in my sights, and adrenaline coursing through my system, I squeezed the trigger. This, after struggling for nearly 10 minutes to dislodge a jammed bullet while Jim held the dog at bay and the animal lumbered around the farmyard.

The first shot traveled more than 150 feet; the animal stumbled. My second shot missed but the third put him on his back and by the fifth, it stopped moving.

Jim and I moved toward each other. He took the gun; I took the dog and headed for the house. He dealt with the remains. I set the safety on the gun and turned my attention toward dinner.

Just another afternoon in the country, I suppose.

A graceful bow draped in warm light

Photographers call it the sweet light. In the minutes that surround sunrise and sunset, the atmosphere diffuses the sun's rays to cast everything, from trees to buildings, in varying shades of warmth. Sometimes it seems the earth spins faster at sunrise and sunset because the sweet light changes its hue quickly and disappears without warning if you don't pause to take note. Today would be a good day to take notice.

Another law to protect us from ourselves

In my work as a personal historian, I am blessed to be able to hear people relate stories of the past, for often they involve heroic acts performed by ordinary people. One such story goes a bit like this:

In the midst of a Depression-era blizzard, a young man named Ray faced the tragic death of a beloved brother. The family called their doctor to attend to the sickly young man, but because of the storm, the roads were impassible. Ray hitched his horses to a sleigh and headed out in the storm to fetch the doctor and bring him to their farm. A few hours later, the doctor stood at the sick man’s side concluding there was nothing to be done. “He won’t last much longer,” the doctor said, and then he and Ray headed out into the night air to return the doctor to town.

With the sick man’s demise imminent, the parents wanted all their children gathered at his side to pray a rosary. That meant Ray, who’d just come back from taking the doctor home, had to head out in the blizzard again to collect his oldest sister. Ray donned his Mackinaw and mittens and headed back outside without complaint. The two returned in time to witness their brother’s passing.

The family telephoned the mortician and he ordered a hearse, but again, the roads to the farm were impassible. Once again that night, Ray hitched his horses to the sleigh, and with his dead brother wrapped in a blanket and lain on the hay, Ray braved the storm with his horses to meet the hearse.

Just yesterday, I read in the newspaper that Minnesota has passed a series of new laws addressing how we transport and handle our deceased. Apparently, there’s a movement toward “natural” funerals including more family involvement in death and burial. The new laws were crafted in response to this movement, to make it MORE difficult for families to bypass expensive, intrusive funeral services and procedures and assume those responsibilities themselves.

One of the new laws makes it illegal for anyone but an immediate next of kin to transport a dead body. Furthermore, a corpse must be carried in the same cab as the vehicle driver. That means it would be illegal to transport a dead body in the back of a pickup truck, for instance.

So much for strength of character, Ray. In 2007, the state legislature has decided it’s a criminal act to take your dead brother on a sleigh through a blinding snow to meet a hearse. Funny. I still think it takes a hero.

If you're coasting, you're going downhill

I had a houseful of young family members visiting over the weekend and I found their exuberance for life exhilarating. Two were laying plans to spend half a year teaching in Eastern Europe, another was interested in discovering – firsthand – the social evolution underway in China. Another talked about heading west toward the mountains; his plans made me think about the pioneers of the late 1800s, the ones who broke sod and homesteaded in order to build up the rural communities that now dot the countryside. Another still was updating his resume; it had taken him four months after joining a Fortune 500 corporation to discover no real purposefulness could be found in spending his days at this, his first post-collegiate employer.

I can contrast the exuberance for life I witnessed this weekend with attitudes I see and hear everyday from people twenty or thirty years older – people my age. Often, people in their forties and fifties who have become disenchanted with their roles in life are too afraid or too invested in the status quo to pull themselves out of life’s queue and change direction. Many of them have already started their countdown to retirement and talk about their lives as being on hold until that one day in the future when they can start fresh. In three or five years, they say, I’ll be able to stop doing what I find distasteful and do something else. They’re coasting toward the finish line, hoping something new vision of themselves will appear in the interim. I have news for these folks. Hope is not a plan.

Of course, none of us have a lock on tomorrow or next year. Not even the young people. But that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t work at reaching our potential each and every day, even if this means we have to risk losing those things in life that make us comfortable. We should never be satisfied with the status quo when we could, with a little risk, do something extraordinary. Remember: if you’re coasting, you’re going downhill.

Winners can play the waiting game

In the mid 1960s, researchers at Stanford University conducted a study using three- and four-year-olds, an empty room and a marshmallow. The rules were simple. Each child was told that the marshmallow was theirs, but if they could wait a few minutes to eat it, they would be given another marshmallow when the adult, who needed to leave the room for a few minutes, returned. The child was then left alone with his marshmallow, his hunger and his coping skills. For the next few minutes, researchers watched how the children coped with the temptation set before them. Again, the choice was simple. One marshmallow now, two marshmallows for waiting. To cope with their wait, some kids wiggled, some squirmed, some danced and a few sang. Of course, others simply gobbled up their marshmallow without pause. The researchers followed these kids (as good researchers do) into adulthood. What they learned was the adults who were the happiest, most successful and most secure in life were the same ones who, as children, waited for that second marshmallow. One can construe from this study that self-discipline is a critical component to lifelong success and happiness. That's interesting research considering how heavily the culture leans toward instant gratification. Indeed, there is value to be derived from waiting. I'm glad to know that as I design my vineyard trellising system. After all, I'm not going to be able to share any of my grapes with you until September 2010. Hope you're okay with waiting, too!

What a difference a day makes

The Vineyard on Labor Day

The Vineyard on Columbus Day

Cold storage for grains, veggies

Deep inside this mountain in the remote Arctic archipelago of Svalbard, Norway, a gigantic vault is being constructed. Yes, construction is occurring inside the mountain. When complete next February, the new vault will be roughly half the length of a football field; it also will be the most secure facility of its kind in the world.

Svalbard is located less than 100 miles from the North Pole. It’s accessible only by sea or air; it’s not the kind of place one stumbles upon by happenstance or bumbles into unnoticed.

So what’s so valuable that it needs to be protected by steel, rock, permafrost and the occasional polar bear?

Seeds.

The Svalbard International Seed Vault is being constructed to protect, and thereby preserve, the planet's crop diversity. The seeds housed in the vault will represent every variety of food known to man. You might not be aware, but there are more than one hundred thousand varieties of rice. (Uncle Ben’s isn’t one of them.)

The world’s crops are vulnerable to natural disasters yet are also at risk in areas of civil unrest or war. In 1992, Afghanistan’s national seed collection was destroyed by mujahedeen fighters. Last month, a Typhoon sent a wall of water and mud through field collections in the Philippines, washing away banana, taro, sweet potato and pigeon pea varieties that held global importance. Catastrophic events aside, bio-diversity is a laudable goal in an era where climate change, pests, and disease present growers with significant challenges.

Stored at sub-zero temperatures, scientists estimate the seeds deposited in the vault could last hundreds, even thousands of years.

The Global Crop Diversity Trust, an initiative launched by the United Nations in 2001, will help operate the vault and the project has generated sizeable donations from corporations and the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation, which recently pledged support to the tune of thirty million dollars. It is also supported by more than one hundred countries. Even Ethiopia, one of the world’s poorest countries, has pledged financial support.

A canine mouse hunter

This is farm dog. At least that's what we
call him when he's on patrol at
Four Cedars Farm. When he's roaming the
hallways of our place in the city, he's less instinctual predator, more couch potato. In the city, farm dog answers to Simon.

But farm dog prefers the
farm and we prefer to have him patroling our
acreage because he's got a
helluva nose for rodents. Just a few weekends
ago, he sniffed out a nest of
field mice and even helped us kill one of
them. (We used the shotgun against
the others.)

He found a similar nest last fall.

Earlier this summer, he cornered a rather hideous possum, and he's constantly on the prowl against rabbits, starlings and the occassional errant cow wandering over from the neighbor's place. I've watched farm
dog chase down but just miss a few pheasants and cast a longing eye toward the ducks out on the water.

They're safe though. Farm dog doesn't
like to swim. I guess that, and his
mousing ability, makes him a bit
like a farm cat. Don't tell him, though.

Inspiration

I discovered author Maud Hart Lovelace a few Christmases ago through one of her more obscure children’s books, "The Trees Kneel at Christmas." The book was a gift from the pastor at St. Maron’s; I suppose he thought I would be interested in a tale that features the children of Lebanese immigrants. I found the story to be precious, even though I no longer have young children at home.

Maud Hart Lovelace is better known for her series of children’s books that feature the characters of Betsy and Tacy, two girls who live in the fictional community of Deep Valley. Those familiar with either the Betsy-Tacy series or with southern Minnesota know that Hart Lovelace set the Betsy-Tacy stories in her hometown of Mankato. Fans of the series have created a downloadable map of Betsy-Tacy sites to visit, including Betsy’s house and Tacy’s house. There is even a Betsy-Tacy Society.

I suspect the author’s encounter with Lebanese immigrants and their traditions occurred in New York, not in Mankato. The author and her husband had homes in New York and in Minneapolis, where Hart Lovelace moved after she enrolled in college. Hart Lovelace attended the University of Minnesota but took a leave of absence to travel to California. After she returned to the university, she worked on the Minnesota Daily but she again left college to travel, this time to Europe. She never did finish college. On Thanksgiving Day in 1917, she married Delos Lovelace; they’d met only six months earlier. There is something about the writer’s impetuousness and wanderlust that attracts me to her story.

Hart Lovelace’s first published book was a historical novel set in Minnesota titled "The Black Angels." She wrote several more historical novels but is best remembered for the Betsy-Tacy series, of which there are a dozen books.

When I had a young girl to whom I could read storybooks, I hadn’t yet heard of Maud Hart Lovelace. Now that I have, I have no one to whom I can introduce Betsy, Tacy or their friends from Deep Valley. Someday, that just might change. I guess that means I should download that map, just in case.

Transition leads to growth

Endings can be unpleasant business. It doesn’t matter if we’re ending a relationship, saying goodbye to a loved one, leaving a job or moving away from home, the fact that we’re turning away from the familiar and moving toward the unknown leaves us disquieted. We are apt to avoid endings for this reason. This might be why so many of us botch our endings; we don’t practice them often enough.

Yet though endings are difficult, they are important because they beget new beginnings. If you think back on your life to all the endings you’ve experienced, you will recognize how endings, even those you hadn’t chosen for yourself, led you to someplace new, and hopefully, someplace better. Some call the ending-new beginning cycle growth.

If you reflect deeply enough about endings, soon or later you’ll find yourself contemplating death, for what is death but life's natural ending. I think it’s good to contemplate our final ending for a couple reasons. First, if we reflect on how we’ve spent our lives thus far and find areas we haven’t yet perfected, we still have time to improve: We can tell people we love them before we leave, so they never have to wonder; we can try a hobby we dreamed of trying but didn’t because we couldn’t find time; we can examine how we use our time and redirect energy into making a difference for others.

It’s also worth contemplating how our ending affects us. This exercise is made easier when belief in an after life, which assumes the existence of God, is part of your composition. By reflecting on all the descriptions of Heaven you’ve ever heard or read and on all the advice you’ve ever been offered on how to gain access, it becomes easier to examine life – our years of action or inaction – and bring to an end some of the activities that lead us away from eternal happiness.

On the night my sister-in-law Lynn passed away, I got a few minutes with her. I sat at the edge of her bed, took her hand and kissed her cheek. She looked at me and both of us knew it was time to say goodbye. Then she said two things: "It's so hard," and "I'm not afraid."

“It’s so hard,” refers to the stage in her transition called ending. It was hard for her to say goodbye to all of us, hard to let go.

“I’m not afraid,” refers to the stage of transition called a new beginning. Lynn knew a better existence waited for her beyond the walls of her hospital room and wasn’t afraid to embrace it.

It’s been said we gain the gift of clarity as we age – or as we approach our ending. I think Lynn captured perfectly the trouble most of us have with endings: the unpleasantness in endings blinds us to the potential that lies in our new beginnings. Endings are hard; new beginnings are nothing to be afraid of.

Free ranging chickens

We’ve been building a chicken coop. Well, we’ve been thinking about building a chicken coop. The plan is to convert an unused shed and then build a ten foot by eight foot cage connected to the coop to allow our chickens the chance to be “free range.”

Eighty square feet of ground might not be what everyone considers free range, I admit. When first thinking about adding chickens to the farm, I envisioned the little guys wandering the property, pecking at whatever ground interested them. I want to be fair to my chickens but I also need to protect my investment in them and protect them from predators, like the hawk that swooped down from the sky on Monday to take out a very large rabbit.

In some countries, including the U.S., the recommended space allowance for laying hens is sixty- to eighty-square inches per hen, barely enough for the hen to turn around and not enough space to allow for comfort movements, such as preening, dust and water bathing, wing flapping and feather ruffling – important to keep the plumage in good condition. Many hens, however, are allowed less space than that. Some large scale egg producers use commercial battery cages for laying hens, the most movement-restrictive production system in use. This is about as far from free range as you can get, but it allows consumers who are price sensitive access to cheap eggs.

I first heard the term “free range” about a decade ago after I stopped into one of those pricey eateries that populate southwest Minneapolis. This one place offered free range chicken in a sandwich. The sandwich cost about two dollars more than the organic peanut butter and jelly or the albacore tuna. (Tuna are naturally free range, I suppose). Anyway, if you had enough money, and you were concerned about the life lived by your lunch before it became lunch, you could enjoy delicious free range chicken sandwiches made fresh daily.

At the time, I didn't give much thought to free range, battery cages, ethics, or the natural food chain. That’s all changed.

In the context of farming, sustainability defines agricultural practices that are ethical, environmentally responsible yet still recognize and allow for the need to turn a profit. In the twenty-first century, sustainability is all the rage. Sustainable farming dictates I give my future chickens room to be chickens, but also recognizes that I have an investment in my chickens that needs to be protected.

So, eighty-square feet of caged range it is. If anyone objects to my use of the term free range for my chickens, so be it. Because when the times comes for one of my chickens to become a meal, it will be me, not the hawk, who enjoys it. And that, dear friends, is sustainable farming.

Powerless can be progress

One of our neighboring communities went without power the other day. It was in the paper. The power was out for twenty minutes in some areas, the article reported; other areas went without power for almost an hour.

Well.

This past August, a storm left us without power for four days. I suppose that outage made headlines, too. I guess I must have missed it. I was too busy feeling my way around in the dark.

Kidding aside, the outage offered me a respite from the busyness that all too easily takes command of my day. It also gave me renewed appreciation for how our ancestors lived. Simply. By the cycle of the sun.

For four days while the clocks stood still, sunrise signaled the start of the day and sunset signaled its end. Evening entertainment hinged on conversation skills or the limits of imagination. If you don't take into account the chainsaw, which is powered by gasoline, the days were quiet ones; the nights, serene. By day four, I'd adjusted to living unplugged and the news that power would soon return arrived with disappointment.

This lifeline we call electric service, which we depend on so greatly that its disappearance radically alters our existence, soon would be restored. By day four, I didn't really want it back.
I had enjoyed my days given over to mother nature, who'd so unexpectedly flipped the switch on us. Frankly, I wouldn't mind if she did it again next summer.

A poem for fall

Can you look at a tree
In autumn and not
be awed by nature
in transition?

Along the highway,
The one I always
find myself on, as
if I were lost, and
maybe, yes I am.
At least you wonder.
The bluff will take flame,
It will be splendor;
Soon, unbridled glory.

But today, it’s just
one tree, just before
leaf drop, standing tall.
Splendor on each branch.
It broke from the crowd,
the do it the same,
monochromatic
crowd that holds fast to
it’s leaves until color
escapes to another tree,
a tree open to change.
You see these along
the highway too. These
you don’t remember.

But color works for
you, and the tree,
because it’s the
way of transition.
There’s loss, then exposure.
You, tree, stand naked,
exposed, bare, and the
ones who don’t turn away
will see how your limbs
reach skyward. They will see
strength. They will know why
those leaves had to go.