The value of the 'printed' word

The problem with being a writer in the modern world is it’s too easy to rely on technology in the application of the craft. Sure, micro-processors give us the ability to quickly pound out our thoughts for the world’s consideration, then email them or post them online such as on a site like this. Technology applied in this way is a good thing.

But computers will fail and systems and software quickly become obsolete; if we’re not careful about preserving our work while we race to keep up with the latest advances in software and hardware – while we transition – we can lose precious stories we’d set aside for some other day.

This is the case with an essay I wrote in the summer of 2001 which I intended to post today. A few years back, I printed a copy of this essay, titled “Tears for Nadine” and filed it away behind my W2s, insurance papers and passport. It was a wise move. The computer on which I composed this essay has been replaced four times over. I’m fairly confident that if I want to share the story here, I will have to retype it. I promise soon I’ll do this; first, I must locate the photos I took, which complement the theme.

Thus, this morning I’m viewing a body of work reliant on technology alone as highly vulnerable. Even the thoughts assembled here are at risk. After all, what if Blogger disappears from the internet without notice? Will I have backed up the site on a daily basis to insure not losing a single thought? (Not likely!) Certainly, among internet companies, Google appears to be as solid as they come. But Enron was once considered a sound investment. And who expected Rome to fall?

I have a business colleague, who I lovingly referred to as “old school.” He prints every single piece of electronic communication he receives; clearly, my friend doesn’t subscribe to the concept of a “paperless office.” At first I used to think his habit of printing everything was a bit obsessive, but recent hard-drive failures of my own have changed my opinion. Old school is just being prudent.

This morning, I’m grateful that for at least one moment between the summer of 2001 and today, I had acted prudently too. For I printed one copy of “Tears for Nadine” and stuck it in a drawer. Perhaps today I should apply a lesson learned and back up this blog too.

Memorable comments from city boys' first week of ag school

"It's a lot like high school, except without all the d#%* rules."

"I'm from the third most populous city in Minnesota. When I told the class I was from Bloomington, one kid asked: 'where's that?'"

"In the span of six hours, I watched a kid chew his way through an entire tin of tobacco."

"It takes 500 years to create one inch of soil."

"Mankato is No. 2 in the world for crushing soybeans."

"I'll be home Friday by noon."

The rituals of Autumn

By all estimates, area soybeans will be ready for harvest the third week of September, two weeks earlier than normal. The corn crop, however, is toast. The 8-to-10-inch rainfall we received a week ago came too late to help corn growers. It did restore moisture to the top soil, however, which bodes well for growers next summer.

Since we at Four Cedars Farms grow neither corn nor soybeans, harvest affects us in other ways. For one thing, it leads us up to hunting season. Already, hunters are stopping by to ask permission to access the property. One man approached me Monday while I was sitting at the edge of the lake, deep in contemplation. His sudden appearance in my peripheral vision scared the daylights out of me; I wanted to tell him he just took two years off my life! I also wanted to send him packing! But he seemed like a decent enough fellow once I got back into my skin, so I gave permission. Some advice to men: never, ever sneak up on a woman. Some of us own guns, too.

Another consequence of harvest is that those millions of bugs living among the corn and soybeans will soon be homeless. Unfortunately for us, many of them will fly our way looking for a warm place to winter. Last year we had so many Box Elders bugs and Multi-colored Asian Lady Beetles inside, I felt like I was living in a terrarium. The vacuum cleaner hose became my new appendage.

The whole indoor migration of local bugs caught us off guard. By the time we figured out what we should have done to keep them out, it was too late. Hundreds of them were warm, cozy, and foolishly crawling on the windows looking for a way out. (Bugs are not bright.) That’s where most of them ended their lives, in the space between window glass and the end of the vacuum hose.

This year will be different. We’ve caulked around the foundation, filled cracks and holes in the siding, and replaced rotted storm windows where most of the creatures got in. And since shrink-wrapping the house seems impractical, we’ve stocked up on lethal bug chemicals; we’re thinking about dousing the whole house.

So farmers, go ahead and fuel up those tractors and combines. Get that crop in. Send those bugs packing. We’re ready.

P.S. Jim does own two extension ladders that will reach the second floor. But doesn’t the arrangement pictured here look like alot more fun?

Where am I, exactly?

Not quite a dozen years ago, Minnesota's head of state — the Governator — appeared on late night television and told the country that the streets of St. Paul had been laid out by drunken Irishmen. Any one who'd ever driven in St. Paul knew exactly what Jesse Ventura was referring to.

Unlike in Minneapolis, where roads are either numbered or arranged alphabetically with north-south running roads called avenues and east-west running roads called streets, St. Paul adopted a naming convention that defies logic and reason. In St. Paul, each street, avenue, road, boulevard or curve name can be traced to a city father or other individual significant to its history. As a result, newcomers and visitors to Minneapolis get their bearings fairly quickly while a lifelong Minneapolitan still will get lost when traveling east of the Mississippi River over to St. Paul.

Of course, the Governator was only going for laughs when he insulted St. Paulites, along with every person in the country who claimed Irish lineage. And, while I'll be the first to admit I've had trouble finding certain roads in my hometown (I've never actually gotten lost in St. Paul), St. Paul is not the only place in Minnesota where place names don't align with logic — or reason.

Case in point. Four Cedars Farms is located in Blue Earth County. But there is a town called Blue Earth, which I drove through yesterday, and it lies an hour's drive from the farm in the next county south of here — in Faribault County. What's odder, though, is that the town of Faribault, fairly well known because it's located right on Interstate 35 about 45 miles south of Minneapolis, is actually in Rice County, not in Faribault County. What's more, the Mississippi River flows from Lake Itasca, which is located in Itasca State Park. Which is located in Hubbard County. There is an Itasca County; it's located two counties further east from Hubbard County.

I'm not criticizing those who named the state's cities, towns, counties or roads, mind you. I know my state well and almost never get lost. (Though, I'm finding it more difficult to make out the small print on the maps!) It's just that a mind can wander a bit while driving an interstate in the rain. Thankfully, it didn't wander too far afield before I reached my exit: U.S. Highway 169.

By the way, there are two statues of the Jolly Green Giant standing in towns along U.S. Highway 169 — one in Blue Earth, the other in LeSueur. And lest you begin to believe our universe is totally disordered, LeSueur is indeed located in LeSueur County.

Things are different out here, because...

... when your yard light burns out, the power company brings you a replacement bulb, and installs it for you!

Creative play taken to extremes

At the south end of the property stands a half dozen imposing oak trees; their limbs are gnarled and bent but all of them grow out of sturdy trunks that stand remarkably straight considering the near constant wind that buffets the ridge. When I first walked through the area a year ago, I could picture a small writer’s shack in the spot. It would be a place where I would disappear to each morning to pen that next great American masterpiece, sort of like a modern-day Thoreau at the edge of my very own Walden Pond.

Of course, the buildings that already stood on the property badly needed attention so I shelved my writer’s shack fantasy for the short term and joined the family as we put sweat equity into replacing rotted windows and siding, cleaning, and painting. But I’d staked my claim, nonetheless. The south end of the farm, the part that drops a few feet below the rest, the area where the oaks shade the grass and the poplars on the shoreline catch the wind, that area belonged to the writer.

Over the weekend, however, interlopers trampled on my dream to put pen to paper in my own ten foot by ten foot log cabin under the oaks. The interlopers were my sons; when they looked at the grassy knoll that made me think writer’s shack, they were thinking zip line.

I couldn’t believe it. Not one son, but both of them thought a zip line strung thirty feet in the air between two oaks sitting more than one hundred feet apart was a good idea. I thought they were crazy. Not only did I object to the obvious dangers inherent in such a setup, the purposeless of it all made me shudder. They should be working. They should be studying. They should be reading!

Trust us, they said, as they headed for their self-designed amusement area. I went inside and that was where serendipity (or God’s grace) allowed me a different perspective. I’d flipped on Speaking of Faith, a show on National Public Radio; the day’s topic was the science of play. I listened intently and I learned a great deal about the activity underway at the south end of the farm – construction of a zip line. The seemingly purposeless act of play is actually a key component in learning trust and empathy. What’s more, it fosters our talents and problem-solving skills.

These insights into play come from Stuart Brown, a self-proclaimed workaholic physician who, at age 63, founded the National Institute for Play. Brown says that pleasurable, purposeless activity prevents violence and promotes adaptability to life's complication. Furthermore, an active play life is a quality of healthy individuals. When humans, and even animals, are safe and well fed, play will take over – if we allow it. Our culture, he said, doesn’t allow it often enough.

But what about flying thirty feet through the air on a zip line, Dr. Brown? Risk, he explained, is a necessary component to a truly valuable play activity. Parents shouldn’t strip risk from play, they only need mitigate the truly dangerous risks. He also said parents shouldn’t hover and they shouldn’t problem solve for their children. “Let them work out their problems their own way,” Brown advised.

Armed with this new insight, I walked over to the area where I have to believe someday a writer’s shack will stand. I looked at my son, perched on a branch like a squirrel. He wore a safety harness and a helmet; his legs were tightly wrapped around the branch as he clipped a pulley to a quarter inch steel cable. If he lost his grip, the harness would keep him from plummeting to the ground. With a hard push, he sailed overhead and then seconds later, hit the opposing end of the line – the other oak – fairly hard. I then understood the helmet. When he lowered himself to the ground, he told me he still had to figure out some way to cushion his landing at the low end of the zip line. “I think I’ll use tires,” he said.

It appeared Dr. Brown had been on the mark regarding play. By constructing a zip line, the boys were problem solving, adapting, working together, and being creative. What’s more, without input from me, they had already mitigated the most severe risk they'd face with their zip line -- falling. And, they were having fun. Their play, when viewed this way, wasn’t at all purposeless.

So the writer’s shack won’t get built this year either. But that’s okay. I don’t write with a pen anyway.

All in a day's play.