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.