History As I Never Learned It!

    Memories come back from history lessons in elementary school about the intrepid European explorers visiting exotic lands to claim them for their kings.  Sailors from Holland, Spain, Portugal, England, France vying to claim new territories. Never once was it mentioned that indigenous peoples had an rights to the land they occupied when the explorers arrived.
    Reading An Indigenous Peoples' History of  the United States by Roxanne Dunbar-Ortiz turns all that history on its head.
  "Thanks to the nutritious triad of corn, beans and squash...which provide complete protein...the Americas were densely populated when the European monarchies began sponsoring colonization projects there.
   The total population of the hemisphere as about one hundred million at the end of the fifteenth century, with about two-fifths in North America, including Mexico."   p. 17
    This history recounts the roots of colonization in Europe and in detail its effect on the indigenous peoples in America.   Its difficult reading because being confronted with the brutal reality is not easy. However, it is such an important book that I wish every American...north and south would read it.

Whose War Is It?

     Yes,  "whose war is it?" is the question that drives Amitav Ghosh' novel The Glass Palace.  It's a long book, 474 pages, covering a long period of history from pre-WW I until 1996 and long on characters.  It is crammed with information that at times makes it feel more like an essay than a novel.  However, everything revolves around the dilemma faced by Indians during British Colonial rule; how should they behave during WW II.  As subjects of Britain is it their duty to fight for Britain against the Axis?  Or, is this the moment and opportunity to throw off their colonial masters?
    There are several answers to this question played out in the responses of various characters living their lives in Burma, Malaysia and India, all of which, were colonies of Great Britain.   The vehicle of a novel allows the author to give the reader insight into the multifaceted dilemma people faced and the pain they endured when there only were terrible choices.
    The book is at its most engaging when the Japanese invasion of  Malaysia and Burma, during WW II, provokes a crisis when everyone must decide how to respond.  The sweep of  the book allows readers to discover the effects of each individual's decision.  It is not always a "page turner" but the breath of information and the delineation of the existential crisis each person faced makes it well worth reading.
    Two novels by Tan Twan Eng, both set in Malaysia during WW II,  The Gift of Rain and Garden of the Evening Mists are good companion books to The Glass Palace.  There are parallels as Tan Twan Eng wrestles with the relationship of Malaysian citizens, one of whom is half Chinese and half English, to Japanese during the occupation.  Eng's book have less information but his style makes for scintillating reading.
   Personally I'm very glad to have read all three and The Gift Of Rain remains in my "top 20" of all times.

"Front Side Going" "Back Side Both Ways"

     Six people, a car that sat six and a system to avoid quarrels.  Two places were givens; Dad drove and Mom sat beside him in the middle of the front seat.  Four siblings were left to claim the other seats.  Lost to time is the memory of how the system evolved but it worked well.  No one wanted the middle of the back seat so that sibling got the prime seat either going or coming...'shotgun' the right front seat with its view out two windows; front and side. Whoever called first got dibs.

     The car?  A 1942 Chevrolet Fleetline two door...a very modern looking car with its swept back styling that Dad purchased new about the time WW II broke out.  It superseded the 1928 Ford Model A that took my parents on their honeymoon to the east coast...the car on which I learned to drive. That '42 Chevy,with its three speed stick mounted on the steering column vacuum assisted that meant finger tip shifting when the engine was running but almost impossible to shift with the engine stopped, was a paragon  of reliability.

     The winter of '48-'49 was a record breaker...so much snow that the National Guard opened roads in the country with bulldozers...I remember being able to step over telephone lines on drifted snow on my trek to school.   Our farm bordered  US Highway 81...drive it from Winnipeg to Mexico City if you'd like...and the highway was regularly plowed.  But, our driveway?...well that was a different matter. It was about a quarter of a mile long rising up a hill and winding through the grove of trees surrounding our farm yard.  We had no mechanized form of snow removal in those days...just all hands on scoop shovels.   

   Eventually we succumbed to the inevitable, gave up shoveling and left that '42 Chevy out in the cold parked at the highway.  It's very doubtful that we locked it but Dad probably took the key out. Yet, no matter how cold, even on those days far below zero and despite the fact that it hadn't been run for days it always started!  It is even more remarkable given the fact it was a six volt battery not nearly up to modern standards.

Thailand Again

    On January 9, 2017 I will leave for Thailand.  This will be my 9th year of teaching there.  The first two years I taught at Wat Salapoon.  However, the English teacher retired after the first year, and with her, much of the welcome I felt at the school dissipated.  The teacher who replaced her had little imagination for how I could be helpful and my role was quite restricted,  Fortunately, I was also connected with the school Wat Klang, so, that second year, I taught at both schools.
    My presence at Wat Klang was whole heart-idly welcomed by the entire faculty. Therefore, I look forward to returning  there for my 8th year.  As I depart each year the teachers implore me to return. Perhaps they are motivated by the fact that I return.  Other volunteers come from time to time but, after a brief stint, they leave and are never seen again.  Someone said "much of life is showing up" and I keep showing up at Wat Klang.
    Returning poses a conundrum.  It is rewarding to return to established relationships both at the school and with the family with whom I live,,,this will be my 7th year in their home. I also have long term relationships with neighbors, tuk tuk drives and others established over the years.  But familiarity breeds a kind of complacency.  What once seemed exotic, interesting, different, colorful...now is "old hat".  Elephants walking down the street, storks feeding in rice fields, huge loads on small motorcycles, elaborate temples, water buffalo in the front yard, acres of ancient ruins...hardly occasion a second glance.
    It would be grand if I could take my students from Noble Academy, where I volunteer here in Minnesota, with me so I could "see" sights through their eyes.  In past years some Noble classes have given me "I spy" lists of curiosities  with which they want me pictured.   This has helped to be aware. Pay attention...for a deep introvert like me I am tempted to focus too much on what's happening within me and too little on my external surroundings.  Hopefully, I can return to the familiar, pay attention, and use the familiarity, to see, both the externals and their significance more deeply.

From The Writer's Almanac 12/24/16

Today is Christmas Eve. One of the best modern Christmas Eve stories is a true one, and it happened in 1914, in the trenches of World War I. The "war to end all wars" was raging, but German and British soldiers had been engaging in unofficial ceasefires since mid-December. The British High Command was alarmed, and warned officers that fraternization across enemy lines might result in a decreased desire to fight. On the German side, Christmas trees were trucked in and candles lit, and on that Christmas Eve in 1914, strains of Stille Nacht - "Silent Night" - reached the ears of British soldiers. They joined in, and both sides raised candles and lanterns up above their parapets. When the song was done, a German soldier called out, "Tomorrow is Christmas; if you don't fight, we won't."

The next day dawned without the sound of gunfire. The Germans sent over some beer, and the Brits sent plum pudding. Enemies met in no man's land, exchanging handshakes and small gifts. Someone kicked in a soccer ball, and a chaotic match ensued. Details about this legendary football match vary, and no one knows for sure exactly where it took place, but everyone agrees that the Germans won by a score of three to two.

At 8:30 a.m. on December 26, after one last Christmas greeting, hostilities resumed. But the story is still told, in a thousand different versions from up and down the Western Front, more than a century later.

With Antisemitism on the rise I reprint this from 12/22/16 Writer's Almanac

It was on this day in 1894 that a Jewish officer in the French army named Alfred Dreyfus was convicted of treason in a trial that became one of the most divisive events in European history. Everybody involved in the case knew that Dreyfus had been convicted without any evidence, but nobody spoke out until Émile Zola, the most famous writer in France, published an open letter to the president on the front page of one of the major newspapers in France, detailing all the evidence upon which Dreyfus had been unjustly convicted. The headline for the article was "J'accuse," which means, "I accuse." It's been called the most famous front page in the history of newspapers. A total of 300,000 copies were sold in one day. The article was reprinted in newspapers throughout France and around the world.

Writer's Almanac Dec. 21, 2016

In the Northern Hemisphere, today is the winter solstice, the shortest day of the year and the longest night. It's officially the first day of winter and one of the oldest-known holidays in human history. Anthropologists believe that solstice celebrations go back at least 30,000 years, before humans even began farming on a large scale. Many of the most ancient stone structures made by human beings were designed to pinpoint the precise date of the solstice. The stone circles of Stonehenge were arranged to receive the first rays of midwinter sun.

Some ancient peoples believed that because daylight was waning, it might go away forever, so they lit huge bonfires to tempt the sun to come back. The tradition of decorating our houses and our trees with lights at this time of year is passed down from those ancient bonfires. In ancient Egypt and Syria, people celebrated the winter solstice as the sun's birthday. In ancient Rome, the winter solstice was celebrated with the festival of Saturnalia, during which all business transactions and even wars were suspended, and slaves were waited upon by their masters.

Notes From The Academy

     Noble Academy, a Minnesota Charter School, with special emphasis on the Hmong language and culture, provides a wonderful volunteer opportunity for me.  My task is to read books with high achieving 5th and 6th grade students to provide enrichment commensurate with their abilities.  There are four 5th graders in my group and my 6th grade group has just been expanded from four to five.  It requires no preparation from me and I attend as I am able which means most days I spend mornings there.
    Recently the 5th grades read Flipped, a young readers book.   It's the story of a boy and girl who grow up neighbors.  He has no time for her until junior high by which time she begins to tire of him. Of course, they eventually come together.
    One scene in the book amused me...I should say...the response of these ten year old students amused me.  The junior high booster club has an old fashioned basket social to raise funds for their activities.  All the students vote to select 20 boys who then must bring baskets to a school assembly. Girls then bid on the baskets and the highest bidder has lunch with the boy whose basket they purchased.
    These fifth  graders had only one interest: what food was in the basket.  Neither the 2 boys, nor the 2 girls, could begin to imagine that one would bid on a basket becasue they liked the person who brought it.  Even after I pressed them a bit it was only the contents of the basket that mattered.  I told them that when they meet me in the hall in a couple of years to tell me if they still think only the food that matters.😜
     There are remarkable changes in students between 5th and 6th grade.  By 6th grade a bit of "cool" is beginning to show.  Their thinking is also beginning to mature.  This was a conversation this week with the 6th grade.  Serenity (her name) "Mr. Al, what is the point of life if we're just going to die anyway?"  Cynthia responded immediately "Serenity, it's about the journey."   We talked about it a bit but not much was said improved on Cynthia's response.

From 12/9/16 Writer's Almanac

On this date in 1979, a panel of scientists declared the smallpox virus to be eradicated. It's the first and only disease to be driven to extinction through human efforts.

The disease itself has probably been around since at least 10,000 B.C.E. Evidence of smallpox scars has been found on Egyptian mummies, and the decline of the Roman Empire coincides with a particularly bad outbreak that claimed 7 million people. It spread from northern Africa throughout Europe and Asia, and came to the New World with Spanish explorers.

Tank Heaters

    What do you think of when you hear "tank heater?"   A few will think of the electric heater that could be attached to the engine of a tractor or car for aid in cold weather starting.  Perhaps most will think of the water heater that heats water for the home.  But mention "tank heater" to a farm boy in the 40's he'd likely think of the heater that keep the cattle water tank from becoming a solid block of ice.
     Our cattle herd lived outside all winter with the exception of the rare occasion of s severe blizzard.  Those cattle needed water to drink all year around.  Between the windmill that pumped the water using wind power and the cattle yard stood a wooden water tank about 10 feet in diameter and about 30 inches high.  In the cold of winter that tank would quickly become a solid block of ice without some method of heating it.
    Our farm was one of the first in the area to be served with electricity because we were next to US Highway 81, and the power line followed the highway.  It reached us in 1943.  But, use of electricity expanded very gradually.  At first we got electric lights and a refrigerator and not much else though we did have an electric cream separator as early as I can remember. It was on object of envy for my friends who had to crank theirs by hand.  It was many years before electric tank heaters appeared.
   The tank heater of my memory was an oblong steel tube about 18 inches wide and 12 inches deep with about a 45 degree angle.  One end lay on the bottom of the water tank weighted down with stones so it wouldn't float.  A chimney rose from this section above the water. The angle part protruded above the water and had a hinged cover. Combustible material...coal, wood, corn cobs...was ignited inside the tank heater and that heated the water in the cattle tank,  Cobs were very combustible, easy to light and gave great heat but quickly burned up.  Wood and coal would burn for a long time, and, because the heater needed to function 24-7, were more desirable.  Cobs were a great starter to get coal or wood burning.  \
    I have memories of  looking out the kitchen window and seeing smoking drift up from the tank heater chimney.
  ( Perhaps some time I'll do an essay on corn cobs.)

Postscript about trees

   Yesterday's blog post reported on the fine grove of trees that surrounded our farmstead.  It provided wonderful protection from the bitter winter winds except in the rare occasion of an east wind.  There was a bit of downside in the summer time when the yard would be very hot as the summer breezes were blocked.
    The orchard enclosed as it was within the trees could be stifling hot in the heat of summer.  Dad was an avid gardener and in his last years his garden was between the orchard and the other trees...no breezes were likely to reach that spot.  One stifling hot summer day with the temperature near 100 degrees day, now in his 80s, was working in the garden. I was sent out to keep an eye on him.  After we'd worked awhile I said I thought we'd better go to the house to cool off.  He said "I'm not hot."  I said "I am" and that persuaded him to go in.  (For those who now wonder about my current tolerance for heat you see I come by it honestly.)
   This grove presented a wonderful play ground for us as children.  The grassy yard was large enough to host a baseball game and other sports.  But the trees were a great place for children to play.  We spent many hours in the cool shade climbing, exploring, imagining and building.  Not to mention cutting wood for the stove.

Tree Planting Legacy

    Grandpa, Lars, purchased the right to complete homesteading on the Brookings Country farm where I was raised and began farming it in 1885. He planted a horseshoe shaped grove of trees around the farm yard.  There were trees on the north, west and south sides with only the east side left open.  The house was near the west tree line facing east toward the barn and granaries.  A huge cottonwood tree stood 25 yards north east of the house until recently and was often the site of our annual birthday picture.  The trunk was leaned a bit because horses rubbed on it while it was young.
   My father, Albert, continued planting trees.  He maintained a large orchard which was south of the house but inside the tree line but I don't know who did the original planting.  There were a variety of apple trees including two from which my mother made delicious apple jelly.  The pear tree produced pears but they were quite green and hard.  A couple kinds of plums completed the variety.
   After the dust bowl, dirty thirties, Dad also planted a shelter belt of trees on the south side of our quarter section of land.  I remember riding with him as he cultivated these trees in the early 40's. That shelter belt still stands as does the grove around the yard.  My brother, who succeeded Dad on the farm, continued the tradition by planting a row of ash trees on the terrace he constructed to prevent soil erosion.
  It has come naturally for me to continue the tradition by planting thousands of trees on our land.  A few years ago R. M. and I hand planted 700 bare root cedar trees in one day...don't think we'd do that much now.   I'm reminded of Martin Luther's statement "Even if I knew the world was going to end tomorrow I'd plant my apple tree today."

Some of the trees including some Ponderosa Pine are visible behind the house.

 

November 28, 1939

    It was a bitterly cold November 28, 1939  in St. Paul, Mn...likely sub-zero...when Albert Negstad and Edith Bergh were married.   I don't know who presided at the wedding, perhaps Rev. Olai Bergh, Edith's father at whose home, 2334 Carter Ave., in the St. Anthony Park area of St. Paul, the ceremony was held. Their wedding photo sows Edith with a knee length white dress, white shoes and holding a huge bouquet of flowers.  Albert is wearing a dark suit, bow tie and white shirt with a light hankie in the breast pocket of his suit.  The 6'2" Albert stands a head taller than the 5'4" Edith. Edith's hair is done with Marcel Waves popular in that day.
   Following the wedding the bridal couple took an extended tour of the east coast driving their year old, 1928 Ford Model A...(the car on which I learned to drive.  They did not return to their South Dakota farm until mid-February.  One of their early...perhaps their first?...stops was at the Palmer House in Chicago.  When Edith signed the guest register she mistakenly signed her name Edith Bergh.
    The Depression soon followed and family and circumstances ended the opportunity for extended travel.  They successfully maintained their farm through the depression even as they raised their four children who were born in 1932( Lucille), 1934(Richard), 1936(David) and 1938(Allan).
    The house where the were married remained in the family for many years.  After Olai's death Edith's sister Agnes and her husband Harold lived there while raising their two children.  Olai's wife, Minnie, lived with Agnes and Harold for many years.  Minnie died on Palm Sunday in 1949 while living with Albert and Edith.
    When Albert and Edith arrived home they were welcome with a traditional chiveree.  One of the persons participating in the chiveree got a bit careless and fired a shotgun blast through the eaves of the house.

Writer's Almanac 11/28/16

Prague
by Stephen Dobyns

Listen Online

The day I learned my wife was dying
I told myself if anyone said, Well, she had
a good life, I’d punch him in the nose.
How much life represents a good life?

Maybe a hundred years, which would
give us nearly forty more to visit Oslo
and take the train to Vladivostok,
learn German to read Thomas Mann

in the original. Even more baseball games,
more days at the beach and the baking
of more walnut cakes for family birthdays.
How much time is enough time? How much

is needed for all those unspent kisses,
those slow walks along cobbled streets?


"Prague" by Stephen Dobyns from The Day's Last Light Reddens the Leaves of the Copper Beech. © BOA Editions, Ltd., 2016. Reprinted with permission. (buy now)

Some Thoughts on Aging

   I came across this little poem that expresses how I feel about aging.

We have all been aging

since the day we were born.

Who decided

 that at a certain age

we are suddenly 

"over the hill"?

I am only as old as I feel 

and I feel "on top of the hill.

"I can look backand

appreciate the climb

and I look forward with trust

 to the rest of the journey.

Time to Become Myself:

Reflecting on Growing Older

Pat Corrick Hinton

Hiding In Plain Sight

        There it was right under my nose and I never discovered it.  I've been around corn all of my life. My father always raised corn, some of which he cut in bundles, shocked, stacked beside the barn because we had no silo and fed to the cattle over winter.  The rest of the corn was picked, stored in cribs and later shelled either for feed or for sale.  For the last few years I've raised corn in food plots for winter feed for wildlife.
         I'm reading An Indigenous People's History of the United States, by  Roxanne Dunbar-Ortiz, for our history book club.  I haven't read very far yet, but, her first chapter is titled FOLLOW THE CORN.  As one might expect there is a lengthy and interesting discourse on the significance of corn for Indian nations.  Then there is this assertion on page 16,  "Unlike most grains, corn cannot grow wild and cannot exist without attentive human care."  which really struck me.  I'd never though about that.  Yes, I've seen corn sprout up from last years spillage, but, corn does not like to be crowded, which I knew. but I'd never reached the conclusion that it "cannot grow wild."    That truth was hidden from me in plain sight.
   ( I suspect that I'll soon write a "Recommended Reading" piece about this book.)

The Birthday Book

    Raise your hand if you've ever received a birthday or anniversary card from the Curmudgeonette?  I see many hands going up because she averages sending about 20 cards a month.  How does she do it?
   My mother helped.  It was our first wedding anniversary, June 6, 1965.  Every anniversary has a material associated with it, e.g.,  the 25th is silver.  For the first anniversary the material is paper so my mother gave the Curmudgeonette a birthday book...and that's all it took...she was off and running...or rather, she was off and mailing.
   The book is an interesting historical document.  Over the 51 years many of the people have died while others have been added.  Mom would be tickled to know the impact that simple gift has had on many lives.
    If you know the Curmudgeonette you know that she has a system. Ten days or so before the end of the month, using the birthday book, she makes list of the birthdays in the next month.  With that list in hand she goes shopping and buys a month worth of cards.  Next she writes on them all and addresses the envelopes writing the date they should be mailed where the stamp goes.  It's my job to affix the postage and mail them on the proper day to reach the intended person close to the day of the birthday/anniversary.   (If your card was late it's probably my fault.)  It is also usually my task to buy the postage...no flag stamps thank you...which gives me the opportunity to make some crack about my sweetie single handedly  trying to keep the U. S. Postal Service afloat.
    And that's the rest of the story!

Intersting tidbit from the "Writer's Alamanac"

Ninety years ago today, in 1926, the United States Numbered Highway System was established. In the early days of automobile travel, the federal government wasn't involved in interstate roads. Various local trails had their own boosters, who gave them catchy names and collected dues from any businesses that lay on the route. The booster organizations would then put up signposts and promote the route, which brought in customers to those businesses. But it was a confusing system for travelers, who were faced with many choices and weren't sure which of the competing claims to believe. In some cases - especially out in the sparsely populated West - trails overlapped one another. And the auto associations came to be viewed with suspicion. In 1924, the Reno Gazette commented: "In nine cases out of ten these transcontinental highway associations are common nuisances and nothing else. They are more mischievous than constructive. And in many instances they are organized by clever boomers who are not interested in building roads but in obtaining salaries at the expense of an easily beguiled public." Wisconsin was the first state to step in to organize and number its trails. The federal government took up the cause and on this date unveiled a standardized numbering and signage system for United States highways.

Recommende Reading: The Song Poet

   A Memoir Of My Father: The Song Poet, Kao Kalia Yang, author of the Late Homecomer.

   On the book jacket Jane Hamilton-Merritt writes:

   "Kao Kalia Yang allows us to hear the whispered sorrows and hopes of those transplanted onto foreign soil among strangers.  I predict that this mystical and historical memoir--of her Hmong family's suffering in Laos, of the rigors and fears of their life in a refugee camp, of the shock of finding themselves unprepared for city living in Minnesota, and of the pain of discrimination--will become a classic."

   One of the best books I've read and I give it a 5 out of a possible 5.

The Stone Age?

    My visit to the rock pile, referenced to in an earlier blog, on The Prairie was occasioned by our thinking that we should order grave markers.  When I was ordained in 1968, my home congregation, Sinai Lutheran Church, gave us two plots in their cemetery.  They said something to the effect "You will likely move around during your ministry and may not have a permanent location.  We'd like to give you two plots in case you'd ever like to use them."  A very thoughtful action on their part. The plots on which we agreed are next to my uncle Henry Negstad and his wife Inga, who were childless. Over the years we've maintained ties to the that community so it seems logical to be buried there.  It also seems logical that we take the next step and arrange a grave marker.

     The stone for which I was searching is large, flat, rock shaped like huge flagstone and has a perfect round hole through the center.  It is slate grey in color.  When I asked my father about the hole he told me this story.  After grandpa Lars secured the rights to the finish the homestead on the farm there were many large rocks on the land which interfered with farming.  Some of them were much too large to move with oxen or horses.  So grandpa would chisel a hole deep into the rock, fill it with black powder...dynamite had yet to be invented...light a fuse to the powder and the explosion would shatter the rock.  The pieces were light enough so they could be moved by horses.  This time when dad told about grandpas's work I had the presence of mind to ask at least one question "How long would it take him to chisel a rock?"  Dad said he might be able to do one in a day.

   It boggles my mind to think of him, with a sledge hammer,  10 or 12 pounds perhaps, spending days chiseling rocks.  My nephew still has the two faced sledge hammer.  One face looks as it has hardly been used while the other face has been rounded significantly from its use.  

   A stone with a hole through it would be an interesting backdrop to our grave marker.  Perhaps I'll look again.  I also remember one in the grove of trees surrounding our farm yard.  My nephew, who now lives there and owns the property likely wouldn't mind.

Trees on "The Prairie"

   It was a small, rectangle, piece of ground too steep to cultivate, that we called "The Prairie" in our east quarter section.  That was a good name for it because it was, and still is today, virgin prairie, because it has never been plowed.  Every year we cut the prairie grasses that grew there. raked it into piles, pitched into hay racks and hauled it to the cattle yard.  There we unloaded the hay, with our pitch forks, next to the fence of the cattle yard making a long narrow stack.  As winter reduced the grazing opportunities for the cattle we supplemented their grazing by pitching hay from the stack over the fence for their dining pleasure.
    A huge rock pile on The Prairie drew my attention recently as a I searched for a particular rock. (That rock and my search will be the subject on a later blog post.)  Farmers often chose sites that were difficult to farm to pile the rocks that they removed from the fields.  Likely my grandfather, Lars, piled the first rocks there, my dad added to the pile, as did I, participating in one of my least favorite farm duties...picking rocks.
   Two tall ash trees, perhaps 30+ feet tall,  guard the rock pile.  A warm surge of emotion surged through me as I noticed that these trees had generated a host of small trees growing around the rock pile, successfully competing with the grass. It brought back the memory of dad saying "I finally got trees to grow by the rock pile on The Prairie.  I've been trying for years to do that."  It's no wonder that it was difficult to start trees there so far from the farm yard the regular watering was not feasible. Now they not only stand sentinel to my dad's dedication to planting trees but are generating new growth.  They also are reminders of how the suppression of prairie fires alters the fauna.
    Both my grandfather and my dad were tree planters and I've tried to continue that tradition, having planted thousands of trees, but, this tradition is a topic for a future blog.

Lost Memories and Too Late Smart

     Having just passed another birthday I'm acutely aware of the passage of time and all the people I've known who are now dead.  Increasingly, I'm aware that with every death what I lose are the shared memories.   Half of my high school graduating class, admittedly a very small group, have died and with their deaths, only I remember some of the stories.  With one of those classmates I shared twelve years of school; 8 years in a one-room country school and 4 in high school.

      "There used to a be a sod house there."   What?  And I didn't ask 20 questions???  Such as: Who lived there?  Where did they go?  Do you remember them?  If not, do you remember the sod house? Were there other buildings?

      It was harvest time and I was driving the IHC Farmall H pulling the 10 foot IHC grain binder which my dad was riding.  We were cutting oats and we had paused nearby.  I noticed that on one small spot, perhaps 20 feet by 20 feet the oats were taller...more verdant.  There was no apparent reason...the spot was on the south crest of a hill, near the road that ran north and south, just east of our land...that that land should be more productive.  When I asked my father about it he told me of the sod house. Do I ever regret that I didn't pursue that bit of information with some questions!
    My father was born in 1883 and moved with his parents to "the" farm in '85.  My grandfather, Lars Negstad, bought the right to finish a homestead on the quarter of land (160 aces or a quarter of a section) which lies immediately west of the land on which the sod house stood.  Therefore, it's very possible that Dad would have had direct memories of the house and its inhabitants.  In any case, he certainly would have known something about them.

     Prior to someone reading this, I suspect that I am the only person in the world who knows about the sod house.  Such memories are often lost.

   I have two requests of any who read this;

      1. Tell stories!

      2.  Ask questions!

A bit of history from The Writer's Almanac, Oct. 30, 2016

It's the birthday of the second president of the United States, John Adams, born in Braintree, Massachusetts (now part of Quincy, Massachusetts) (1735). He made a name for himself as a young man by arguing against the British right to tax the colonies. He was elected to the First Continental Congress in 1774, and began to argue that the British Parliament lacked any legal authority over the colonies. He quickly became the most respected advocate for breaking with Great Britain. People began to call him the "Atlas of Independence."

It was Adams who nominated Washington to serve as commander of the Continental Army, and it was Adams who chose Jefferson to write the Declaration of Independence. And it was he who persuaded the delegates from the colonies to adopt the resolution in favor of independence. He stood up on July 1, 1776, and spoke about independence, without notes, for about two hours. No one knows exactly what he said that day, because no one transcribed his words, but Thomas Jefferson later said, "[Adams spoke] with a power of thought and expression that moved us from our seats." The resolution was adopted the following day, on July 2, 1776. It was probably the greatest day of Adams's life.

Is Football Morally Bankrupt?

      Have you ever heard of Six Man Football?  I don't know if it exists anymore but that is what we played when I was in high school.  There is Eight Man Football in Minnesota, which, like Six Man, is designed for smaller schools.  In Six Man every player was an eligible receiver on offense and it had almost as much running as basketball.
       There was a time that I was a rabid Vikings fan.  It was in the days when Fran Tarkenton was quarterback.  It seemed that I lived and died with the Vikings fortunes.  Eventually I left football behind.
     Many charges have been brought against football.  On many university campuses the football coach is the highest paid employee earning much more than the president.  The distortion that football causes in higher education could be one avenue to pursue in answering "Is Football Morally Bankrupt?"
    Another possible indictment that could be used would be to cite the statistics of increased domestic violence during NFL games.  Similar to this argument is the trail of disorderly conduct caused by college and professional football players.
     A case could be made against football based on the tremendous expenditures on stadiums and other venues related to football. One could argue that schools, health care, road and bridges, etc., would be better uses for such money.
    Let's set that all aside, and, at least for the sake of argument agree that, while there is some weight to those arguments, they alone are not enough to convict football.  There is one more case to be made that, I believe, makes football morally bankrupt:  physical injuries.
   Organized football begins at the elementary school level and continues through junior and senior high.  An orthopedic surgeon once told me that much of his medical practice was sustained by football injuries.  He was speaking of pre-college football.  Young people are very resilient and usually heal from their football injuries.  However, we now know that concussions can have lasting and serious effects on the brain.  We also know that injuries from which young people have apparently healed often are the location of arthritic problems later in life.
     The sports pages are filled with articles about injuries to players at various levels; high school, college and professional.  Public reaction is muted, perhaps like the proverbial frog in the pot being heated on a burner, the reality has gradually crept up on us.  If any other public activity caused the injury and suffering that footballs does we'd be shocked.
     Football players make a choice, it is true.  But they begin before they have an adult conception of reality and the thrill of competition and adulation of the spectators is hard to resist.  If they experience success at one level they are pushed to continue and by the time they reach the college level they have a high likelihood of having sustained permanent physical harm.
    Football is inherently violent.  It is good that measures are taken to reduce the likelihood and severity of injury.  However, if these measures were adequate the sports pages would not be filled with columns of injury reports.  Physical injuries;  this is the reason that I believe football to be morally bankrupt and I cannot in good conscience be a spectator.

Recommended Reading

         Once more with feeling...perhaps is a good way to describe my second reading of The Last Farmer: An american Memoir, Howard Kohn, published in 1988.  It's been so many years since I first read this book that I remembered only the broad outlines.  Ah, the blessings of a short memory...I can re-read and enjoy a book as much as the first time because so much is forgotten.
        Howard Kohn, former senior editor of Rolling Stone and the author of Who Killed Karen Silkwood writes this reflection on his farmer father and his relationship with him.  Fredrick Kohn was a 3rd generation German American farmer in Michigan.

      "My father loved his farm, but her understood better than I the ironies implicit in passing on a farm in your own image.  The lands mocks the farmer by outlasting him and outlasting his family, no matter the number of successive generations.  The one thing of permanence that a father can bequeath---a life of respect and respectful virtues---will be rendered ironic and pathetic if he begins to act as if he is entitled to a bailout, whether from the government or from his children.  My father had to work at understanding this. It was not given. It was an achievement, like any work. I had thought of (Great-Grandfather) Heinrich as a pioneer, going off to a new land, and I had thought of my father as a stand-pat guy.  But I was my father who geared himself up for the bold stroke, who saw that the farm did not old us together, as I had thought, but stood between him and his children.  So he sold it and brought us back together, or rather had gone off to find us, all of us in our own places."

That was interesting!

  Out for a short afternoon walk with Trygve, the wonder dog, I was passing on a broad stretch of sidewalk between buildings when  I saw someone on a prayer rug in the Muslim prayer position. Standing over him was a person with a Trump tee shirt yelling abuse, slapping his head and kicking his legs. As I drew closer I could hear the abuser yelling "Get out of my country."   The young man on the prayer rug looked as if he might be African and his tormentor was Caucasian.
    As I challenged the attacker he backed away but continued the verbal abuse.  When I inquired  of the well being of the man on the prayer rug they 'fessed up'.  It was a social experiment to see if anyone passing by would intervene.  The funniest part was that the "attacker" was more intimidated by my dog than he was by me, though I was much larger than he.  What is so funny is that Trygve, while he weighs 60 lbs., is the least threatening dog ever.
    I regret that I din't spend more time in conversation with them but I think my adrenaline was too high and I just left.

Another Thought After Book Club

   "Participation in two book clubs keeps me reading.  One book club is in our old neighborhood and we read a wide variety of books.  The other book club focuses on history. Orphan Train, a novel by Christina Baker Kline was chosen by the neighborhood group but would also fit as history.
    "Between 1854 and 1929, so-called orphan trains transported more than two hundred thousand orphaned, abandoned, and homeless children...many of whom, like the character in this book, were first generation Irish Catholic immigrants...from the coastal cities of the eastern United States to the Midwest for "adoption"  which often turned out to be indentured servitude."  afterword p. 8
   The book is well written bringing  to light an important phase of  American life.  However, while it did reveal the difficulties many "orphans" suffered, in my opinion, it still went a bit light on how barbaric this experience could be.  Yet, I think it well worth reading."

   I wrote the above on a recent post.  Yesterday our book club had a good discussion of the book but after I got home theses thoughts occurred to me,

  We were all appalled at the reality of hundreds of thousands of children being treated in this manner. The book well illustrates the trauma and terrible situations in which many of the orphans were placed. The behavior of the workers who handled the children was roundly condemned.
   But, I think, there was one significant aspect of that situation that should have been named that we missed.  During those years the role of government was much smaller.  Today such a thing as an orphan train would be unthinkable, largely because of the role government plays in the welfare of children.
   In our current political climate there is much rhetoric about regulation and about the evils of big government.  Perhaps, but much of what government does is helpful.  As a dweller of a condo in the downtown of a city I am happy for regulations, e.g., you must pick up your dog poop,, that my brother living in the country would find intrusive and burdensome.  Government regulation of the welfare of children is now assumed and when government fails it is fodder for investigative reporting.  We should think carefully about what is good about government and that should also inform our attitude toward taxes...but that's a subject for a later blog.

Memories of a Typhoon (Hurricane)

    Hurricanes in the eastern hemisphere are called typhoons.  Having lived through one, all of the reporting of Hurricane Matthew brings back memories.  It's been a long time so some details escape me.
    It was during my time in the Marines and happened in 1961.  Our battalion left Camp Pendleton, CA in June and relocated to the Island of Okinawa, Japan.  We were stationed at Camp Suikran an army base on the southern end of the island.  The barracks were two stories high and made of poured concrete, so, quite secure in a typhoon.  So secure, in fact, that Marines living in Quonset hut barracks stayed with us for the duration of the storm.
   As storms go it was rather moderate with sustained winds slightly less than 100 mph. For about 24 hours the wind blew furiously from the south.  We all moved to the north side of the barracks away from the potential danger from broken windows.   Rather abruptly the wind died down and the sun came out as the eye of the storm passed over.  Then about 12 hours later the wind resumed from the north, lasted another 24 hours and then it was over.   There didn't seem to be much damage on base but civilian structures were a mess.
   When the storm approached all the Navy ships in the harbor put out to sea to ride it out.  I was in some storms at sea but never a typhoon.  It must have been some ride.
   We didn't go hungry during the storm  becasue each barracks was equipped with its own kitchen.  One company, consisting of  four platoons and support personnel, was housed in each building.  It was the only time I experienced company level dining and it was the least tasty food.  Usually dining was on the battalion level and the cooking was better.  However, Marine Corps food was never as good as the Navy's.  We always ate better when we ate with the Navy, for example, aboard ship. Marines never received the level of financial support as did the other branches of the military and that was demonstrated in Navy mess halls.

A Mixed Blessing

    Noble Academy, the Hmong charter school where I volunteer, has really grown.  When they were renting a building at 40th and Thomas in north Minneapolis space limited their enrollment to 800. Last year they moved to the new building they built in Brooklyn Park, just north of the village of Osseo.  Because they built for growth there were a number of empty rooms in the building.
    When I meet with my small group of students we leave their classroom and find a place where we can read audibly,  With all the empty rooms that was no problem last year.  Now the school has grown to a 1000 students and all the classrooms are occupied.  Therefore, I've gathered with my scholars at a table in the library.
    Meeting in the library has worked fairly well.  However, there are many times when entire classes come to use the library.  This has not distracted my students very much but with my compromised hearing, coupled with the student's soft voices, I often find it difficult to hear.
    This week my groups were moved into the library office and we can close the door.  Shutting out the noise was very helpful to me.  However,  the students behavior changed dramatically.  Suddenly they became all chatty.  While it is happy chatter it is a distraction from their task.
    We recently finished reading Yellow Fever; 1793, the same book I read with the 6th grade last year.  It is a historical novel based on a true epidemic that struck Philadelphia in 1793, a plague that killed 5000 people, 10% of the population.  Some of the characters in the book are actual people who lived in Philadelphia during that time.
    Now, their assignment is to write themselves into the story.  They have been doing research on the historical situation portrayed in the book.  Today it was time to begin their first draft of their story and the chatter was a distraction.  Finally I said "For the next 5 minutes no one may speak."   That worked wonders as they turned to the task at hand.  Repeating that practice several times gave a balance of time for interaction, which is important becasue they are encouraged to collaborate, and individual effort.
    They decided that they would also write each other into their essays.  The finished products will be quite delightful.
     While they were thinking about the research they'd done on 1793 suddenly one of them asked me if I remembered black and white photographs.  They were quite impressed that I was old enough for that.  Then she asked "What were shoes called when I was young?"   She was disappointed when I answered "shoes".   I am the oldest person any of them know.

Patience required

     There is a small piece of virgin prairie on some land we own in SD.  This land, 10-15 acres maybe?...has never been plowed because it is both hilly and rocky.  Previous owners fenced it for pasture.
     When we purchased it in 1992, two grasses made up 99% of the grass cover: Smooth Brome which is an import from Europe...possibly from Siberia...and Kentucky Bluegrass.  Neither of these grasses have much wildlife value, in part, becasue they are not stiff enough to stand up to winter snows. Enhancing wildlife habitat has always be an interest of mine.
   Because it is native prairie and becasue native grasses have more wildlife value I was interested in restoring those native grasses.  Plowing and replanting was not a feasible strategy because of the hills and rocks, besides, it would no longer be virgin prairie.   Burning, another restoration option, also isn't wise because it would be too difficult to control and keep the fire within proper bounds.
    Brome grass is an early spring grass, very aggressive and very difficult to eradicate and Bluegrass, also called June-grass, is also a spring grass.   Many of the native grasses are late summer grasses which is why they do not compete very well with Brome grass.  However, the early nature of the invasive grasses do provide a method of more natural control.
    The buffalo are long gone but other grazers are available to provide that control. A local farmer raises both sheep and cattle and he agreed to put his livestock in this pasture from early spring until the 1st of July.  For the first twelve years he used it as sheep pasture with one donkey included to protect the sheep from coyotes.  Big Bluestem, a late summer native grass that grows to six feet tall, gradually began to emerge.
    This summer the farmer pastured a large herd of cattle who did a more thorough job of eating down the invasive grasses.  This week I walked in that pasture and noted that the Big Blue Stem has made a significant comeback covering perhaps 25% of the ground. Other native grasses such as Indian Grass and Little Bluestem are also present.
    Patience is indeed required but it has been worth the wait.

Marlborough Man With a Big Heart

    Two abandoned farm building sites on our land in South Dakota provided, what the law considers, 'attractive nuisances'.  Trespassers are tempted to explore the old, abandoned buildings and if they are injured while doing so we could be held liable.  Both sites had long been unoccupied; one since 1969 and the other since 1991.
    At the 1969 site there was a small silo, barn foundation...I had burned the barn a few years ago on a cold winter day...two cisterns, an abandoned well, a small house, and an unattached garage.     The 1991 site had a house and a barn that had collapsed a few winters ago under the weight of snow.
    I engaged a local contractor, a few years younger than I...isn't everyone?... to do the work. He looks a bit like the Marlborough man.  He began at the 1969 site.  One day, after he had begun work, he stopped by my garage in town where I was working on a tractor.  He reported that he'd buried the cisterns, barn foundation and silo.  The hole for burying the house and garage was also dug but now he was waiting.  He said "The garage is full of barn swallow nests and the babies haven't left the nest yet.  I won't bury the garage until they have left the nest."   He didn't expect me to understand...but, I thanked him for it,  I said "I feel bad that they won't have that as a nesting site next year."
   When the barn swallows left the nest and he'd finished burying the house and garage he moved on to the 1991 place.  With his excavator he dug a huge hole by the barn and with his caterpillar (he once let me try out his caterpillar) pushed the barn in and covered it up.  Then he dug a hole by the house but, when he began to lift the house, a large raccoon fled through the roof.  When he shut off the motor of the excavator he could hear baby raccoons in the house.  He investigated and found they were newborns.   So he went to town and consulted a veterinarian who suggested he put them in a box in the tree grove to see if their mother would return.  For three days he fed them cream with a syringe while waiting for the mother's return.  She did not return so he took them home and is raising them.
   Indeed, a man with a big heart!

Recommended Reading

   Participation in two book clubs keeps me reading.  One book club is in our old neighborhood and we read a wide variety of books.  The other book club focuses on history.  Orphan Train, a novel by Christina Baker Kline was chosen by the neighborhood group but would also fit as history.
    "Between 1854 and 1929, so-called orphan trains transported more than two hundred thousand orphaned, abandoned, and homeless children...many of whom, like the character in this book, were first generation Irish Catholic immigrants...from the coastal cities of the eastern United States to the Midwest for "adoption"  which often turned out to be indentured servitude."  afterword p. 8
   The book is well written bringing  to light an important phase of  American life.  However, while it did reveal the difficulties many "orphans" suffered, in my opinion, it still went a bit light on how barbaric this experience could be.  Yet, I think it well worth reading.

Noble Academy, 2016-2017

     Too much fun!  That's the short description of my year of volunteer work at Noble Academy during the 2015-2016 academic year.  Before the year ended the teacher invited me to participate in the same way this year.  I'm thrilled to be back...and it's even better this year.
      Working with four 6th graders we are just finishing the first book we've read together.  Fever: 1793, is a historical novel about a Yellow Fever epidemic in Philadelphia the occurred in 1793. Because the students all come from homes of English language learners their vocabularies are not well developed.  They are the most proficient readers in their class...reading at a high school level...so it is a delight to help them expand the words that they know.
     So why is it better this year?   One of the 5th grade teachers, with whom I'd previously worked, was disappointed that I no longer assisted in her room.  I suggested to her that, becasue I only 60-75 minutes with the 6th grade, I'd be happy to do the same for her if she'd like.  She could choose the students and the books for us to read as long as it was not at the time I was with the 6th grade.  She agreed so now I'm reading with 5th graders, too, and that's why it's better this year.
     The 5th grade is reading an old classic; BFG, by Roald Dahl.  One of my 5th graders told me that "he's my favorite author".    Another in response to my asking how many siblings...well here's the dialog:  "Me: How many brothers and sisters do you have?  Student: I don't know.  Me: What's your best guess? (A little pause while the student thought.) Answer: Seventeen."
    A number of factors make this an ideal volunteer opportunity.  No preparation is required of me, being there every day is not necessary, the students are exceptional and love to read...plus, of course it keeps me off the street.

Some of my 6th graders last year on 'dress up day'.

This year's 6th graders.  (Notice the fist salute.)

A Movable Feast? My Big Fat Greek Wedding? or eating across Greece!

Yummy eggplant salsa  (Jane J. pic.)

    No foodie am I...I actually like McDonald's...but did we eat.  Anna is a foodie and as proprietor of the world famous Gardens of Salonica Restaurant in SE Minneapolis she saw that we were well fed. We'd find ourselves in some Greek location and agree on a time to meet for dinner...often after 8:00 p.m....and, at the appointed time, she'd lead us off to place to eat, usually where we'd eat outside and very often a place familiar to her.
    Meals were family style.  Anna would do the ordering, in Greek of course, with much discussion of the method of preparation.  As we sipped our wine, beer, or gin and tonics the appetizers would appear...bread, fried cheese, olives, egg plant,  etc., soon more plates came, three orders of everything to share between the nine of us, often salads.
    After eating about five or six wonderful foods, and, just as I was thinking "what a wonderful  meal" more food would come...such as goat, lamb, beef, chicken, fish, lobster, or sausage...or more than one of these.
   What did I learn?  That Greek food is wonderful, even eggplant, Greek ripe olives are terrific and that it's fun to have someone else do the ordering.  Sharing it all with others, both long term and new friends, made it taste even better.
    Jane J. author of the blog jwkjohnson3.wordpress.com took pictures of most of the food and she gives great descriptions which I cannot replicate.

Warm,fresh goat cheese.

Greek salad. (Jane J. pic.)

Lobster anyone?  (Jane J> pic.)

(Jane J. pic speaks for itself.)

What A Group!

      Anna C.  is the proprietor of Gardens of Salonica, a Greek restaurant in SE Minneapolis.  Spring and fall she leads small group tours to Greece.  What Anna doesn't know about Greece is probably not worth knowing.  She' married to a Greek, her daughter and family lives in Athens, she speaks and teaches Greek, she's Greek Orthodox and seems to know people wherever we traveled in Greece.

   Jane J. in her amazing blog jwkjohnson3.wordpress.com said this about the trip....
"This type of trip is different from the other great adventures we’ve taken–it’s sort of a vagabond trek through Greece. Though Anna knows where she’s leading us and feeding us and has everything arranged, we have no specifically detailed itinerary–just a vague list of dates and places we’ll stay. So each day is an adventure for us. A monastery? A winery? A historical site? A beach? She leads and we follow. Sometimes we’re on time; other times we might be somewhere around the targeted hour. The tempo is slow and easy,"

    There were eight travelers plus Anna in the group.  Way back in my 'sensitivity training' days in the '70s we were told that nine was an ideal size group.  Perhaps that was correct because the group was definitely a high light for me.  There were two sisters, two female traveling companions who left husbands at home, my ministry partner from Iowa and his wife, plus, the curmudgeonette and me...the Traveling Curmudgeon.
    We laughed, ate, talked, ate, swam, ate, visited wineries (6), ate, rode bus, ferry, airplanes, ate, milked goats, ate, learned about Greece, ate, visited antiquities, ate, went to a farm, ate, some shopped, ate......... A high point for me were the meals together.  Anna would order food for our family style meal.  After four or five dishes arrive I'd think "wow! that was a great meal" only to discover that we were only half finished as dishes continued to pour from the kitchen.   A wonderful way to bond as we shared stories from our day and from our lives.
    This was my first experience of group travel and certainly has advantages...step off the plane or ferry and someone is waiting for you, our own private bus, no concern about logistics, a guide who took us to places I'd not find on my own, and companions with which to share the experiences.  Having someone else order the food was also fun.  The camaraderie of great companions was wonderful.

Shopping in Athens

Dinner on Santorini

Stuffed egg plant with tomatoes and cheese (Jane J. pic.)

Fennel encrout with sauce (Jane J. pic.)

Rooster and potatoes  (Jane J. pic.)

Olive Trees

    (If you want to read an extremely good narrative account of our Greece trip, Jane J., one of our travel companions, kept a blog at jwkjohnson3.wordpress.com  She has wonderful food pics which I do not have.  I will cross reference her blog with mine.  My blog, like me, will  be very random.)

   "I think I shall never see, a poem as beautiful as a tree" wrote Joyce Kilmer, whom I was surprised to learn, was a man,   Greece is swathed in Olive trees from valleys and high up mountain sides. There are many orange groves and vineyards as well, but, they are not nearly as ubiquitous as olive trees.
   Every olive tree in Greece has an owner and ownership is hereditary.  In fact we visited one winery on Crete, Manouskis,  owned by a wealthy entrepreneur who made his money in America and returned to his childhood home to found a business to aid the local economy.  On his property was an olive tree that was between 1300 and 1500 years old.  originally given to a priest, which the vineyard owner did not own.  Jane took a good pic of this tree. (see below) (Cross reference with Day 10, of Jane. J's blog.) It's a bit like mineral rights in America which are separate from land surface rights.
    Olives like light and air.  Therefore, olive tress are pruned to enhance olives reaching light and air.  The trunk is severed about six feet above ground and the branches curve upward from the remaining stump so the trees are shaped a bit like an inverted umbrella and are not very tall...perhaps fifteen feet.
   At the city of Messolongi (Jane's blog Day 5) we were hosted by a family who grow olives and who also operate an olive extraction business.  One of my first learnings was that it is hot in the sunshine in in olive grove when it's 113 degrees...about the top end of my comfort zone.  The Curmudgeonette discovered olives she liked for the first time ever.

The 1300-1500 year old olive tree.  (Jane J. picture)

In the olive grove...these trees are 200 years old.  Kleopatra, dressed in white, was our hostess for the study of olives.

Olives on the tree. (Jane J. picture)

Containers for olives.

Products for sale at the olive pressers place.

An antique olive press which was powered by a donkey.   Now olives are pressed  in modern stainless steel equipment with hydraulic pressure.

Olive trees fill the valley floor..picture taken from Delphi.

Blogging Resumption: re Greece (and other things)

   On our Greece trek I only carried a smart phone which is no way to blog.  Therefore, I suspended blogging until now that I'm back at my desktop.  So I will be blogging in my typical, random fashion about our Greek experiences.

I found this in today's Writer's Almanac so, with it's connection to Greece thought I'd reprint it.

Today is the beginning of the Dog Days of summer, 40 days of especially hot and humid weather with little rainfall, according to the Farmers' Almanac. The name came from the ancient Greeks. They believed that Sirius, the "dog star," which rose with the sun at that time, was adding to the sun's heat. They also believed that the weather made dogs go mad. The Romans tried to appease Sirius by sacrificing a brown dog at the start of the Dog Days. For the Egyptians, the arrival of Dog Days marked the beginning of the Nile's flooding season, as well as their New Year celebrations.

"Dog Days" has been adopted by the stock market, because the markets tend to be slow and sluggish; it's also come to mean any period of stagnation or inactivity.

The Corinth Canal begun by Nero with 6000 Jewish slaves and completed by the French at the end of the 19th century.  It connects the Ionian and Aegean Seas  through the Corinth Isthmus.  Cut  through solid rock 4 miles long, 30 yards wide and the sides are 10 yards high.

Athens to Crete

     Yesterday we made the hike from our hotel to the Acropolis and admired the Pantheon.  Ah how history repeats.  Christians destroyed much of the statuary before turning the Pantheon into a place of Christian worship and today ISIL destroys sites in Syria and Iraq.
    The Acropolis stands high above Athens offering a view of the city to the sea beyond.  A nice breeze accompanied us on a moderate day.  Temperatures are predicted to be in the 100s here in the next days.
    Athens is a city that eat outdoors with endless restaurants on the street.  Billed as a "food and wine tour" this experience will certainly fatten me up if I keep eating as I have.  Think "Greek wedding" type of food.  Last night, after climbing endless steps, we ate on a roof top with a beautiful view of Athens in one direction and  the Acropolis the other.
   I'd hoped to share some pictures but after waiting endlessly for this computer to upload them I gave so they will come later.  Today we leave Athens for Crete.

Greetings From Athens

     The Curmudgeonette and I are in Greece for 17 days having just arrived hours ago.  K. & B.G., from Iowa City are with us on a small group tour...8 people...billed as "a food and wine tour".  There are four foci of the trip; antiquities, food, wine and beaches.  We will visit the islands of Crete and Santorini five wineries.  Anna, our guide, runs the Gardens of Slonika restaurant in NE Minneapolis.  
    I'll post on this blog as time and internet access permit.

Perhaps Men Should Not Vote

Writer's Almanac 6/4/16

The United States Congress passed the 19th Amendment to the Constitution on this date in 1919. The amendment, which gave women the right to vote, had been a long time in coming. The women's suffrage movement had arisen along with the abolitionist movement in the mid-1800s. Many women were active in both causes, and Frederick Douglass often spoke at women's rights rallies. In 1848, Elizabeth Cady Stanton drafted her "Declaration of Sentiments," which adopted the language of the Declaration of Independence in calling for voting rights for women: "We hold these truths to be self-evident: that all men and women are created equal; that they are endowed by their Creator with certain inalienable rights; that among these are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness; that to secure these rights governments are instituted, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed. [...] Now, in view of this entire disfranchisement of one-half the people of this country [...] we insist that they have immediate admission to all the rights and privileges which belong to them as citizens of the United States."

Stanton also drafted the original Constitutional Amendment, with help from Susan B. Anthony. It was first introduced in 1878 and languished in committee for nine years before it came up for a vote. It was defeated and, although individual states passed laws allowing women the right to vote, a national amendment wasn't considered again until 1914. President Woodrow Wilson backed it in 1918, saying: "We have made partners of the women in this war. Shall we admit them only to a partnership of suffering and sacrifice and toil and not to a partnership of right?" The 19th Amendment was ratified by the states and took effect in August 1920. It states: "The right of citizens of the United States to vote shall not be denied or abridged by the United States or by any State on account of sex."

Martha Washington; Writers Almanac 6/2/2016

Today is the birthday of Martha Washington, born Martha Dandridge on the Chestnut Grove Plantation in New Kent County, Virginia (1731). When she was 18, she married Daniel Parke Custis, whom she'd met at church. Custis was in his late 30s, and a prosperous landowner of a 15,000-acre plantation called White House. He had never been married because his father disapproved of every woman he had courted. He and Martha had four children, only two of whom - Jack and Patsy - survived beyond childhood. When Custis died in 1757, Martha inherited the plantation, including 300 slaves and well over 17,000 acres of land.

Martha was only 26 when she became a widow. Her marriage had been happy, and she hoped to have more children, so she planned to remarry. What's more, she was now wealthy and could follow her heart in matrimonial matters, rather than making a financially advantageous match. The 26-year-old military man and fellow Virginian George Washington had also recently inherited an estate - Mount Vernon - upon his brother's death. While visiting Williamsburg, he heard about the wealthy young widow. He paid a call on her, and made a point to tip her household slaves lavishly. At 2,000 acres, Mount Vernon was small compared to Martha's plantation, but money was not her first consideration. Colonel Washington was tall and handsome, and had a reputation for bravery and honor. Martha was petite, engaging, and had a cool head for business, as her efficient handling of Custis's tobacco business had already shown.

George resigned his military commission in 1758, and he and Martha married in January 1759. She trusted him enough that she opted not to draft a prenuptial agreement, as most widows in her situation would have done. She also made him the legal guardian of her two surviving Custis children. She ordered her wedding clothes - including made-to-order, high-fashion purple silk shoes - from London. Throughout their marriage, George took pleasure in ordering shoes for Martha, and was not shy about returning any that were deemed unsatisfactory. In one letter, he wrote, "Mrs. Washington's slippers and clogs have come safe to hand, the latter, however, are not as she wished to have [...] and will, by the first convenient opportunity, return the clogs to Mr. Palmer and get a pair of galoshes."

Martha expected to lead a quiet and comfortable life at home. But during the Revolutionary War, her husband did not return home to Mount Vernon for six years. He often requested her presence at the Continental Army's winter encampment, and she made the exhausting journey to be at his side. She made friends with the other officers' wives, worked as George's secretary, and comforted sick and wounded soldiers. She led a drive among area women to knit socks for the army, to keep them warm and dry during the brutal winter. She also hosted social events at the Valley Forge headquarters. But she missed her remaining son, Jack, and his children. Jack died in the war, and she raised two of his children; she had no more children of her own. In 1789, when George Washington was inaugurated as president, she became America's first first lady. Though she never sought out public life, and said she felt "more like a state prisoner than anything else," she made the best of it, knowing that she was setting the precedent for all the first ladies to come. She held weekly salons, hosting foreign dignitaries as well as ordinary members of the community. She felt it was important to show that the new government was accessible to all.

The Washingtons returned to Mount Vernon in 1797, after George declined to seek a third term as president. Her social duties continued unabated. When her husband died in 1799, she burned all of their correspondence. She often spoke of how terribly she missed him. She died two and a half years later

From 5/20/16 Writer's Almanac

The Krakatoa volcano in the Sunda Strait of Indonesia began erupting on this date in 1883. A German ship, the Elizabeth, was sailing past the island and reported seeing a column of smoke and ash rising some seven miles into the sky above the mountain. The activity continued for the next few months; locals held festivals to celebrate the volcano's rumbling and spewing and occasional fiery bursts. But on August 26, a series of explosions blew the mountain-and the island-apart. Sea water had gotten into the magma chamber, and when it came into contact with the molten lava, it was like cold water hitting a red-hot skillet. The resulting explosion was heard in Sri Lanka, 4,500 miles away; the tsunami it caused rose to 130 feet and killed over 36,000 people.

Krakatoa spawned a volcanic offspring before it blew up. Anak Krakatau, "child of Krakatoa," began to rise out of the sea in 1927. Today, it's about half the size of the original volcano, but it's growing every day. It's been spewing smoke, lava, and molten ash for the last several years.