Mai-Evy at three months

When a baby cries......

We were recruited to babysit Mai-Evy last Saturday. Both Mom and Dad had to work. Tough duty but some one has to do it! For about twenty minutes she cried and wouldn't be comforted. She was mad. The bottle wasn't her mommy and she was NOT pleased. Reminds me of my philosophy teacher in college making the point about the elasticity of time. He said "Ever notice the difference in an hour in philosophy class and an hour with your girlfriend?" (It was an all male class.) Twenty minutes with an inconsolable granddaughter can seem like a long time.
But really it was a blast. She's tall, alert and probably the smartest three month old ever. Ah, Yes, retirement's grand that allows such happy duty!

He's not heavy, he's my brother!

This is another story that Lisa B., brought back from the Philippines. Lisa and Dan L. were visiting a school and handing out 'school kits' that American volunteers pack for distribution in developing countries. Each kit has six pencils, a scissor, an eraser, a pencil sharpener, three spiral notebooks and some construction paper in cloth bag.

When the students lined up to receive their bag one boy went over and picked up another boy who couldn't walk so he could be in the line. Lisa and Dan took them aside and got their story.

They are brothers that I will call Carlos and Jose'. Carlos is eight and Jose' is six. Jose' had polio and that left him unable to walk. So, everyday, Carlos carries Jose' to school, two hours down the mountain and every night he carries him two hours back up the mountain home again. As was true of most of the children neither had shoes. Now Carlos has made another decision, he's going to start school over again. He's going to do this so he can help Jose' by being in the same class. Carlos and Jose' were ecstatic about their new school supplies. Carlos said, "We only had one pencil which we shared. Now we each have six and that's enough to last us until we graduate. I've never had a notebook before."

God bless the people who pack school kits and God bless LWR! Check the website LWR.org

Duck, duck rice goose........

Lucky us! We just had a visit from Lisa B., V.P. at LWR (Lutheran World Relief) fresh back from a trip to the Philippines. She brought with her some great stories. She said visiting a new rice processor in southern Mindanao, a very poor part of the Philippines, marvelous as it is, wasn't as interesting as the ducks. She noticed a man herding a large flock of ducks in the rice paddies. LWR had provided the ducks which are herded to graze in the paddies. The ducks eat the weeds, snails, bugs and pests but not the rice. Their grazing has eliminated the need for herbicides and pesticides. They also fertilize as they graze. Additionally they lay seventy or more eggs per day. Many of the eggs are sold, except for those eaten by his family, enhancing his income. Occasionally they'll eat a duck, a treat they never had before. LWR has a great website; LWR.org Check it out.

Coming soon; the story of Carlos and Jose.

and the doctor said....

It was probably during my high school years that my mother fell on the steps in our house and broke her ankle. I saw her fall and her ankle twisted outward at an odd angle. Before any of us could respond she took her ankle, bent it back into a more normal position and said, "There, now it will be OK." Of course it wasn't and she ended up with a cast but that maybe why I'm reluctant to go for medical help.

A few years back I was getting off our roof when the ladder slipped. I didn't really fall. The ladder was on our new, second story deck which is a maintenance free plastic sort of thing. The deck was slippery and the ladder didn't grab as it did on the old wood deck. I grabbed the rain gutter and swung down my shin banging the gas grill. If I were to rate the blows I've received through my life it was about a three, on a scale of one to ten. I steadfastly refused medical help until I developed a good case of cellulitis. Yes, I know, two surgeries and a long scar on my leg were my reward.

The next year a a dog bite on the inside of my thumb eventually led to an infection in the tendon sheath. I have a scar on my thumb and the inside of my wrist from the surgery to flush out the infection. Yes, I know, I should have learned my lesson with the injury to my shin.

Have you ever heard of a 'xiphoid process'? Well I hadn't until today. A couple of weeks ago I noticed a bump at the bottom of my sternum. Where did that come from? Has always been there? Is it changing? Growing? Sore? Well a little but is that because I keep pressing on it? Not wanting to make the mistake of the shin or thumb injury I went to see my doctor, well, actually she's Physician's Assistant and was youth in one of my former congregations. She said, "Have you lost weight?" I said, "Yes". "Well," she said, "that's when people notice their xiphiod process, the cartiginous joint of the floating ribs...perfectly normal."
So that's the story of how I've gone from stoic curmudgeon who will not seek medical help to a hypochondriac.

I'm going canoeing......

"The habituation of workers to the assembly line was thus perhaps made easier by another innovation of the early twentieth century: consumer debt. As Jackson Lears has argued, through the installment plan previously unthinkable acquisitions became thinkable, and more than thinkable: it became normal to carry debt. 11 The display of a new car bought on installment became a sign that one was trustworthy. In a wholesale transformation of the old Puritan moral ism, expressed by Benjamin Franklin (admittedly no Puritan) with the motto "Be frugal and free," the early twentieth century saw the moral legitimation of spending. One symptom Lears points to is a 1907 book with the immodest title The New Basis of Civilization, by Simon Nelson Patten, in which the moral valence of debt and spending is reversed, and the multiplication of wants becomes not a sign of dangerous corruption but part of the civilizing process. That is, part of the disciplinary process. As Lear writes, "Indebtedness could discipline workers, keeping them at routinized jobs in factories and offices, graying but in the harness, meeting payments regularly.' " So writes Matthew B. Crawford in SHOP CLASS AS SOULCRAFT: AN INQUIRY INTO THE VALUE OF WORK.
With economic doldrums we suffer today we see the chickens of this philosophy come home to roost. Here's my confession. Lars graduated from Oberlin College and went to work for the ELCA Board of Pensions processing health claims. I don't think he ever enjoyed it. He'd been doing this for seven months when he told me he was going to quit so he could canoe down the Missouri river through Montana. What was my reaction? "Go for it, you may never have another chance"? "Good for you, that's a great way to spend your summer"? No! Sorry! I did the old, "but you've got benefits blab blab blab". Lars looked down at me and said, "Dad, what are you trying to tell me? that I should gain the whole world and lose my soul?" That brought me to my senses and I said, "Have a great trip."
Lisa gave me the book for Father's Day. As the blurb on the book jacket says, "A philosopher/mechanic destroys the pretensions of the high-prestige workplace and makes an irresistible case for working with one's hands." I've enjoyed the book and had never thought about the narrow constraints under which white color workers labor today and many of the other points he makes.

What hath technology wrought?

Last night I was checking Facebook when I got an Instant Message from Liz in Australia. She is a teacher and taught at Wat Salapoon, Thailand while I was there. While we were chatting via IM on Facebook my friend, Davin, from Cambodia IMd me. So, there I was sitting in MN, simultaneously chatting with friends in Australia and Cambodia.

Comfort food...

I love Farmer's Market. Minneapolis has a great one Saturdays just off Glenwood Ave. NW of downtown. Yesterday the weather was perfect. I like the diversity, the produce, the music, smell of brats cooking, fresh sweet corn freshly cooked, the Hmong grandmas, the jostling crowds, fresh sweet rolls, flowers, bedding plants, honey, jams, cheeses, spices, Somali women negotiating with Hmong grandpas, Latinos bargaining for chili peppers, Hmong grandchildren translating for their elders, Indian women in saris, people speaking Russian, middle Easterners buying eggplant, Hmong hand stitched cloth, organic chicken, fresh eggs.... All this is crammed together under a series of long narrow sheds with roofs but open sides. Lines form in the aisles snaking along between the tables. Queue up and follow along but watch out for the baby buggies.
My purchases included a bouquet and a carmel roll for my sweetie, blueberries, strawberries, raspberries, two kinds of onions, muskmelon, and freshly shelled sweet peas. My mother, Edith, always made creamed peas. Joanne fixed creamed peas for me...my idea of comfort food...summer in Minnesota and life is good.

A farmer went out to...

Thank goodness, and Joanne, for a cell phone. Joanne? she gave it to me when I didn't think I wanted it. Monday afternoon I'd gone out to cultivate my corn which is about three miles from town. My 1951 John Deere A died. While I was checking the points the carburetor overflowed and filled the cylinders with gas. When I tried to start the tractor it wouldn't turn over because of the gas in the cylinders. I removed the spark plugs and ran the starter to pump the gas out. When I replaced the spark plugs the battery was too low to start the tractor.
I knew my friend, Lloyd, was visiting his brother, Marvin, in Sinai. Lloyd's cell phone number is in my directory so I called him to ask about Marvin and got Marvin's phone number. Marvin was just leaving Brookings, fifteen miles away and he said he'd swing by. We used his jumper cables to start the tractor. I drove to the end of the field and back and it died again. The spark was very weak so we went to Marvin's place to get a new condenser. With the new condenser in I made it to the end of the field and the tractor died again. Again there was a very weak spark so we took the magneto off and decided to try again in the morning.
Tuesday morning with a new magneto I made it to the end of the field before it died again. We disassembled the carburetor and discovered the float wasn't floating, it was full of gas. We took the carburetor to Marvin's and put in a new float. Back to the tractor and once again I got to the end of the field and stalled. Rain clouds were threatening but we were able to keep the tractor running at full throttle by turning the gas shut off valve down significantly. So I was able to finish cultivating.
Back at Marvin's place we disassembled the carburetor and found that the new float also had a leak in it. Now, do you see why I like farming?
PS It did rain and inch so cultivating would have had to wait for a couple of days at least by sich time I'd be back in MN.
PPS Marvin is a retired farmer, tractor collector and an excellent mechanic with a well supplied shop.

What does it mean.......

My recent trip back to Mohall, ND, brought an interesting revelation. A few months ago I was thinking about one of the youth I worked with when I was there from '68 to '75. The name, Joel Sandeen, came to mind but I couldn't think of his younger brother. I could visualize him and remember a number of things about him but couldn't come up with his name. He was on my mind for several days and then I've thought about him occasionally since. What does it mean that he came to mind just about the time he died? I hadn't thought of him for years. Oh? His name? Paul, Paul Sandeen.

Melancholy trip.

It was a special time in our lives. I was newly graduated from seminary and just ordained. Lisa was ten months old and Lars was born here. Joanne was ready to take a break from work. Mohall was a vibrant little city on the the North Dakota side of the border with Canada about where Manitoba and Saskatchewan meet. Mohall was the country seat, had a consolidated school, a small hospital with two doctors and a bustling business district. We arrived in the summer of 1968 and left in the fall of 1975.
Visiting Mohall (named after an early resident, M.O. Hall) thirty four years after our departure is a melancholy experience. The people in whom I invested have moved on with their lives. Youth who were active in my youth group have retired, died, raised families...and there is a piece of me that believes they should be as I left them.
The Mohall hospital is closed and main street is largely vacant. The town looks a bit run down and I'm left feeling melancholy as I reflect upon the years, the people and the changes. Aging is such a weird experience, internally I don't feel any older, yet, I'm confronted with the reality of all the time that has passed in my adult life.

There were sand "greens"....

We looked at each other and wondered if we should know each other. It wasn't until I signed the book that she said, "I know you!" "I'm Donita Read Klassey." "So, what year did I marry you?" I asked. "1975" she said. That's the year we move away from Mohall, ND. and she and her husband also left returning a few years ago.
Now she's the manger of the Mohall Country Club where I first played golf as a twenty nine year old newly ordained pastor. There were sand greens in those days and the green fee for members was fifty cents. Membership cost $15. Now that's the cost of green fees for non members and the green greens are nicely cut and well maintained. It was a beautiful ND day, about 8o degrees, blue skies and a slight breeze. At this north west location daylight lingers until 10pm at this time of year. ND is blessed with great sight lines...not too many trees blocking the view.
The sad local news is the death of a fifty three year old woman killed when her motorcycle hit a moose.