11 January 2008
And then there are the days...
... when nothing goes as planned. Photo courtesy of Dodgen Aircraft, Allegan, Mich.
10 January 2008
The backyard
The last time I was able to see the farmhouse and the granary from this angle was in October, when I was sitting in the middle of the canoe with Steph in front and Amos in the back steering. Now, they are safely installed at their hostel in Budapest and winter affords me the opportunity to safely wander onto the lake. Farm dog too.
That's hubby in the center of the picture, clipping those nasty sticker plants that lodge in farm dog's fur. January has given us some wonderful days of above average temperatures which feeds our hope that Spring cannot be too far away.
That's hubby in the center of the picture, clipping those nasty sticker plants that lodge in farm dog's fur. January has given us some wonderful days of above average temperatures which feeds our hope that Spring cannot be too far away.
07 January 2008
Sometimes questions aren't necessary
If you were to deconstruct a person’s history, you would have two things: facts and stories.
Facts are skeletal in nature. Everything rests on facts. Most lives can be pared down to just the facts. But then, nobody lingers with facts because there’s no flesh there, nothing on which to pin decorations of valor, no place to tuck our vulnerability.
Stories, on the other hand, are the containers that hold a life’s meaning. Stories are how we connect to one another, how we know we belong, or can belong, if only we choose to allow ourselves. Stories reveal our truest self.
Here’s a true story.
Today, I met a farmer. He, along with a son or two and a nephew or two, tills 3,000 acres of corn and soybeans, and finishes 14,000 hogs on a farm north of Jackson, Minnesota. Those are his facts.
I had business with this farmer today, business that could have been completed in about 10 minutes had I only been interested in collecting facts. Today, though, and everyday, really, I’m interested in stories. To communicate this interest, I ask people to talk about themselves and I listen, sincerely, intently, and, sometimes, courageously.
The farmer and I shook hands and I asked him to walk me around his property and tell me about his operation. Because he was polite, he obliged. Somewhere between the hog nursery and the corn dryers, the farmer handed me his story. HIS-STORY.
He’d been born and raised in the county. He pointed to the old homestead across the frozen field where he’d been reared, he and his brother. His brother had gone to Vietnam and returned. The two entered a partnership: Johnson Brothers Farms, they’d called it. One day, the farmer loaded a truck full of hogs and left for the processing plant, because, “we always deliver our own hogs” and his brother stayed behind. Later that day, his brother had a heart attack and died. The brother was 39 years old. It happened at home. “Passed away,” was the term the farmer used. Passed away.
The farmer’s brother left a wife and three youngsters, two boys and a girl. The widow moved into town and was fixing up a house for her and the kids. She and her father were standing on scaffolding doing some repairs to the house when the scaffolding suddenly collapsed. They both passed away because of the accident, he told me. Both of them, passed away.
Those kids lost both their parents within a year, the farmer told me. The farmer took the kids in, raised them, and now the two nephews were part of the operation which no longer is called Johnson Brothers Farms but just Johnson Farms.
Then the farmer told me he’s been ill. Seriously ill. The boys, his sons and his nephews pretty much run things now because of his illness, he said. He got his diagnosis at the Mayo Clinic on Sept. 11, 2001. “That was a memorable day,” he said, then he invited me inside.
Of course, I’d sought out none of this information when I drove four hours from my home to Johnson Farms. But the stories emerged nonetheless, and I decided long ago to be a generous listener because I know no one’s life can be, or should be, summed up in pure fact. Stories emerge from life and one’s legacy is revealed by stories. Stories can be found everywhere, even in the middle of nowhere. All that’s required to find them and hear them is to listen generously.
Facts are skeletal in nature. Everything rests on facts. Most lives can be pared down to just the facts. But then, nobody lingers with facts because there’s no flesh there, nothing on which to pin decorations of valor, no place to tuck our vulnerability.
Stories, on the other hand, are the containers that hold a life’s meaning. Stories are how we connect to one another, how we know we belong, or can belong, if only we choose to allow ourselves. Stories reveal our truest self.
Here’s a true story.
Today, I met a farmer. He, along with a son or two and a nephew or two, tills 3,000 acres of corn and soybeans, and finishes 14,000 hogs on a farm north of Jackson, Minnesota. Those are his facts.
I had business with this farmer today, business that could have been completed in about 10 minutes had I only been interested in collecting facts. Today, though, and everyday, really, I’m interested in stories. To communicate this interest, I ask people to talk about themselves and I listen, sincerely, intently, and, sometimes, courageously.
The farmer and I shook hands and I asked him to walk me around his property and tell me about his operation. Because he was polite, he obliged. Somewhere between the hog nursery and the corn dryers, the farmer handed me his story. HIS-STORY.
He’d been born and raised in the county. He pointed to the old homestead across the frozen field where he’d been reared, he and his brother. His brother had gone to Vietnam and returned. The two entered a partnership: Johnson Brothers Farms, they’d called it. One day, the farmer loaded a truck full of hogs and left for the processing plant, because, “we always deliver our own hogs” and his brother stayed behind. Later that day, his brother had a heart attack and died. The brother was 39 years old. It happened at home. “Passed away,” was the term the farmer used. Passed away.
The farmer’s brother left a wife and three youngsters, two boys and a girl. The widow moved into town and was fixing up a house for her and the kids. She and her father were standing on scaffolding doing some repairs to the house when the scaffolding suddenly collapsed. They both passed away because of the accident, he told me. Both of them, passed away.
Those kids lost both their parents within a year, the farmer told me. The farmer took the kids in, raised them, and now the two nephews were part of the operation which no longer is called Johnson Brothers Farms but just Johnson Farms.
Then the farmer told me he’s been ill. Seriously ill. The boys, his sons and his nephews pretty much run things now because of his illness, he said. He got his diagnosis at the Mayo Clinic on Sept. 11, 2001. “That was a memorable day,” he said, then he invited me inside.
Of course, I’d sought out none of this information when I drove four hours from my home to Johnson Farms. But the stories emerged nonetheless, and I decided long ago to be a generous listener because I know no one’s life can be, or should be, summed up in pure fact. Stories emerge from life and one’s legacy is revealed by stories. Stories can be found everywhere, even in the middle of nowhere. All that’s required to find them and hear them is to listen generously.
06 January 2008
Feeding the herdsmen
Gulyás. It's the Hungarian word for herdsman and it is often associated with goulash, or Hungarian stew.
I adapted a traditional Hungarian Goulash recipe for the dietary needs of my herdsmen. I used venison steak (instead of beef flank steak) browned in butter and onions, then simmered in spices, including paprika, tomato sauce and green beans. The finished stew was ladled over rice pasta instead of durhum wheat noodles.
It was a hearty meal eaten with Steph and Amos in mind. On Monday, the pair fly out of Chicago O'Hare aboard an Air India jet, through Frankfurt, and then on to Budapest.
Our two young friends will be teaching elementary school English in Gyor, Hungary until early summer. Their adventures will be chronicled on their new blog: Adventures with Paprika. We'll be checking in often, and I've placed a link on the side of this blog, Hungarian Goulash, to help you find them.
I adapted a traditional Hungarian Goulash recipe for the dietary needs of my herdsmen. I used venison steak (instead of beef flank steak) browned in butter and onions, then simmered in spices, including paprika, tomato sauce and green beans. The finished stew was ladled over rice pasta instead of durhum wheat noodles.
It was a hearty meal eaten with Steph and Amos in mind. On Monday, the pair fly out of Chicago O'Hare aboard an Air India jet, through Frankfurt, and then on to Budapest.
Our two young friends will be teaching elementary school English in Gyor, Hungary until early summer. Their adventures will be chronicled on their new blog: Adventures with Paprika. We'll be checking in often, and I've placed a link on the side of this blog, Hungarian Goulash, to help you find them.
Look back and learn
On the heels of seeing Good Night, and Good Luck, the docu-drama that recounts Edward R. Murrow's attempt to bring down Joseph McCarthy during the red terror, comes this ...
http://yeli.us/Flash/Fire.html
It's a 3-minute-long historical slide show set to Billy Joel's tune "We didn't start the fire."
It appears the program has been circulating for months, since it's found on Teacher Tube, but it just found its way to me.
As if that weren't enough, I actually watched the New Hampshire debates last night. What is happening to me?
http://yeli.us/Flash/Fire.html
It's a 3-minute-long historical slide show set to Billy Joel's tune "We didn't start the fire."
It appears the program has been circulating for months, since it's found on Teacher Tube, but it just found its way to me.
As if that weren't enough, I actually watched the New Hampshire debates last night. What is happening to me?
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