Again to our reality...

    Saturday night passed with little property damage and no deaths or serious injury.  Operating under the cover of an 8pm curfew, a massive force of national guard, highway patrol, Minneapolis Police and others restored order to the streets. The curfew meant that anyone on the streets was in violation of the law and subject to arrest. The discipline of the law enforcement personnel in avoiding inflicting injury or death meant that ware no violent acts to trigger a violent response. Enforcement personnel simply did not allow crowds to exist thus taking cover from those who would foment a riot.

      Friends Pastors Becky and Thomas von Fischer, wrote the following piece as their reaction to our troubles.  In their words....

To our family and friends,

Thanks to many of you for your calls, texts and emails of concern over the current maelstrom in our beloved city.

We are privileged to live out of harm's way ... at least for now.

Here's our reality

The police lynching of George Floyd took place one block from Calvary, where - as most of you know - Becky and I served as co-pastors for 13 years prior to our retirement in 2008.

These are our beloved people ... our beloved community.

We know the Cup Food store, outside where George died ... and the neighborhood - for decades, a challenging, troubled place.

But also a place where people have invested so much to make it a desirable place.  And with modest success.  

Over the past years we've seen a new, hope-filled energy ... new businesses ... new vitality.

Only to have this senseless murder again evoke immeasurable pain in our midst.

On top of the profound grief and loss we all feel from the pandemic, here we are bombarded with another tragic reality.

Tuesday, as people began to gather in the intersection outside Cup Foods, Becky walked over.  (I couldn't bring myself to go.)

Although the announced demonstration time was yet hours away, a huge crowd had already gathered.

It didn't take long for tears to fill her eyes as she wept for the city ... turned around and came home.

We're finding we have little to say to one another.  It's just hard. 

So much pain ... so much anger ... so much fear.

In the words of Hans Lee, the current pastor at Calvary: 

For generations, those in power have refused to address the white supremacy that is at the core of the Mpls. Police Dept.  This has caused pain and trauma among many, including people within our own community. Our emotions are all messed up as we witness the destruction of parts of the cities we love so dearly.  We feel the rage of the protesters (and we are the protesters), at the same time we lament the rage that too easily turns to violence, and we lament the mayhem caused by those who just don't care about our neighborhoods.... We pray for peace and a restful night, but we know in our heart of hearts that there will be no peace without justice. 

It begs us to cry out in the biblical tradition of lament. When God's people have found themselves in the midst of situations that make no sense, searching to understand what is going on, they have called out to God: "Why do you stand so far off, O Lord, and hide yourself in time of trouble."

Lament, we do ... out of pain ... out of confidence that God is listening.

  

Having been blessed to live much of our adult life in the African American communities - in Columbus, OH, south side of Chicago and now south Minneapolis - Becky and I have the experience of voices of many Black elders ... both those living and saints who have gone before us.

We hadn't thought much lately about Frederick Douglass.  But these words (from his speech on the 24th anniversary of emancipation in 1886) ring with new clarity.  Where justice is denied, where poverty is enforced, where ignorance prevails, and where any one class is made to feel that society is an organized conspiracy to oppress, rob and degrade them, neither persons nor property will be safe.

Ironically, these words were posted on the Facebook page of a small, white-owned restaurant nearby, badly damaged by rioters.

They know - as many of us in the city know - that we've been sitting on a ticking time bomb for a long time.

In the words of one of our Black pastor leaders, "Anyone who didn't see this coming wasn't paying attention."

Flashback to 50 years ago

Becky and I met and married in the late 1960s.  

Back then, Nightly News featured a double dose of violence: blood-drenched scenes from the battlefields of Viet Nam along with the urban battlefields of our burning cities.  

Martin Luther King's words rang true then ... still do.

Riots do not develop out of thin air.

A riot is the language of the unheard.

Social justice and progress are the absolute guarantors of riot prevention.

As much as we invested our lives and work over the past decades dreaming and hoping that progress was being made, the brutal reminders continue: much unfinished business yet awaits us..... One of the vivid encounters caught on camera from a helicopter was of an African American activist, standing outside the Lake Street Target store as looters were coming out with arms full of stuff.  He hollered: "Hey... bro!  Really?!  What are you doing?"  At which point, one looter recognized the activist, put his loot down and walked away.

It will take integrity on all sides to begin the long, hard work of reconciliation.

Kyrie Eleison.

May the healing presence of the Spirit guide and bless us all.

Tom and Becky

Takk for alt,

Al

PS Both Lisa and Lars are members of Calvary.

 

The Crisis Before us.

       George Floyd is dead. You may have watched the video of a Minneapolis police officer kneeling on his neck for several minutes. It's too terrible for me...I cannot bear to watch a man die. Had I attempted to pass a counterfeit $20. bill a week ago, almost certainly, I'd still be alive. Floyd was the third African American male to die at the hand of police in this metro area in short time. Had it not been for my concern for COVID I would have joined the initial protest. It's clear that racial minorities are policed differently than are Caucasians.
      Recently I read Frederick Douglass: Prophet of Freedom. The book not only details Douglass life it also presents a telling history of White Supremacy in America. The current troubles in our city are directly traceable to White Supremacy. White Supremacy denies people of color equal treatment by law enforcement and within the legal system. It creates barriers for minorities in education, employment and other phases of everyday life. When a black man dies, as did Floyd, and the video records that death for all to see, it's a spark to the dry tinder of centuries of racial injustice.
       The police response to the initial peaceful protesting poured fuel on the fire. With some justification, many have suggested the police wanted to make the political leaders look bad. Things quickly got out of hand.  When the first protest was met with police firing tear gas and rubber bullets from the roof of the police precinct station violence ensued.
        Quickly via social media the call went out to White Supremacists and anarchists to come to Minnesota and join the fray. Almost all of the persons arrested last night for rioting in Minneapolis and St. Paul are from out of state.  Minnesota is a popular target for such persons because of our progressive traditions.  The fascist plan is to sow so much discord nationally, note the disturbances in other cities,  that an authoritarian leader steps in to restore order. Think of Nazi Germany in the 1930s. Whether or not for this purpose, Trump's tweets have encouraged the violence. Never in his presidency has he challenged White Supremacy and he has called White Supremacists "good folks." He'd love to send Federal troops to Minneapolis to present himself as "the law and order president." This, after a presidency of race baiting and denigration of minorities, immigrants and refugees.
     Minnesota leaders; governor, commissioner of safety, mayors and others have been trying very hard to restore order without additional violence. Were the police to start shooting, as Trump suggested, "the looting starts the shooting begins", it would be full scale war. Many of the rioters mingled in with legitimate protesters are armed and...due to our lack of reasonable gun laws...it is legal for them to carry weapons. It is remarkable that there have been no deaths yet. The trouble makers would like nothing better than to ignite a race war.
     These provocateurs mingle with peaceful protesters, run out from the crowd, break a window or start a fire and quickly get lost in the crowd. The governor has imposed an 8 pm curfew and has publicly asked all law abiding citizens to honor it to deny the rioters the cover of a crowd. It is 4:30 as I write and I hope lawful persons will obey the curfew tonight and deny cover to those intent on creating havoc.
     There has been almost no social distancing during the protests. COVID is not a thing of the past and June will likely be our worst month yet. Complicating law and order during this time is that, face masks are encouraged, to slow the spread of virus. Ill intentioned protesters wear face masks ostensibly to avoid spreading COVID but it provides cover for them as they create mayhem.
    So, we hope and pray: for a safe and peaceful night, for racial justice, for our elected leaders and others charged with security, for the well being of those harmed by loss of their businesses and property, for decency and order in our national life and all the other blessings of peace and justice.

Takk for alt,

Al

Where justice is denied, 

where poverty is enforced, 

where ignorance prevails, 

and where any one class is made to feel that society is an organized conspiracy to oppress, rob and degrade them, 

neither persons nor property will be safe.   

Frederick Douglass  1818-1895

Transition.

      This blog, which began primarily as a focus on grief, and my journey in the land of grief,  has gradually transitioned into being more about literature.  Before I write more about that transition here's more poetry about grief.

"Grief—as I knew it, died many times. It
died trying to reunite with other lesser
deaths. Each morning I lay out my
children’s clothing to cover their grief.
The grief remains but is changed by
what it is covered with. A picture of
oblivion is not the same as oblivion.
My grief is not the same as my pain. My
mother was a mathematician so I tried
to calculate my grief. My father was an
engineer so I tried to build a box around
my grief, along with a small wooden
bed that grief could lie down on. The
texts kept interrupting my grief, forcing
me to speak about nothing. If you cut
out a rectangle of a perfectly blue sky,
no clouds, no wind, no birds, frame it
with a blue frame, place it faceup on
the floor of an empty museum with an
open atrium to the sky, that is grief."

From “Obits: Poems,” by Victoria Chang (Copper Canyon, 2020) Reprinted with permission of the publisher. 

      As my grief moved  from acute to chronic, more subjects suggested themselves as blog topics. Since abandoning my condo for greater safety during this pandemic, reading has been life giving to me. Some time ago I read  My Life With BOB, Pamela Paul. BOB is her book of books, a simple list she's kept of the books she reads. After reading her book I began my own BOB. Today I consolidated scattered lists into my BOB and discovered that I've read 14 books since leaving my condo in mid-March. This accounts, in my opinion, as a significant factor in the peace and serenity I feel.

    It's not entirely clear to me how reading does this. Much of it would have to do with having my mind occupied by something worthwhile. The other perspectives offered in literature also has a calming effect. Learning is a form of growing and that is also transforming.

   Blessed and grateful would sum up my feeling.

Takk for alt,

Al

About reading...

Pastor Peter Marty is editor of The Christian Century.  In each issue of the journal he writes the front page article, From the Editor Publisher. Typically his contribution is worth the price of the magazine.  In the May 20, 202 issue he writes...

"...Sedentary living is normally not a recommended state of being for good health. Most sedentary behaviors create huge risk factors for mortality, especially in older adults. But a study by Yale University researchers several years ago showed a significant linkage between book reading and longevity. That’s right, reading books leads to cognitive benefits that positively impact greater survival rates. Published in the journal Social Science and Medicine, the research found that book readers averaged a two-year-longer life span than those who did not read at all.

The 3,635 individuals involved in the study, all over the age of 50 and tracked for an average of nearly ten years, were asked the question, “How many hours did you spend reading books last week?” Respondents were then divided up into three separate groups: those who read no books at all, those who read books for up to three and a half hours, and those who read more than that. Those in the middle category were 17 percent less likely to die than non-readers, and those who read most were 23 percent less likely.

The study accounted for the influence of comorbidities (cancer, heart disease, stroke, etc.) on reading or survival, and it made adjustments for the existing cognitive capacities of readers before the study. Still, regardless of wealth, marital status, job placement, sex, race, education, or even depression, older adults demonstrated the survival advantage of reading books.

According to researchers, two cognitive processes involved with book reading help create this advantage. First, there is the benefit of slow and immersive reading patterns that accompany “deep reading.” Second, books can promote empathy, social perception, and emotional intelligence.

Not included in this health study was Bob Crowe, a 95-year-old member of our Christian Century board of trustees. Bob and his wife, Liz, have hugely empathetic hearts and sharpness of intellect that most 45-year-olds only aspire to. For decades now, these two have been reading books out loud to each other every morning for an hour or more during breakfast. (Full disclosure: they also read the Century during these breakfast sessions, a variable that Yale researchers failed to consider when studying survival advantages from reading.)"

       Quarantine has certainly been an opportunity for me to read.  Perhaps it will lengthen my life if it keeps me off the street and away from COVID.  Two of my friends, both readers and writers, have the practice of him reading to her every night at bedtime. May this lengthen their lives.

Takk for alt,

Al
    

Long Marriage

       Long marriages require health and much forbearance by the one who knows us best. Launched into commitment on the pulse of romance, long marriages are also a matter of endurance. Sometime after Joanne's death I blogged about our little pet peeves. Joanne's, my failure to replace the toaster cover, and mine, her failure to replenish the butter dish. In the retrospect of two plus years in the land of grief they seem incredibly trivial. Multiply these grievances by a few dozen and it's in the realm of the remarkable, if not the miraculous, that Joanne kept me for 55 years. Fully capable of being the critic who knew me best she was significantly restrained and thus our marriage not only lasted by thrived.
      Poetry, and especially that of Maya Angelou expresses this reality.

Maya Angelou (b. 1928)

"Touched by an Angel"

We, unaccustomed to courage
exiles from delight
live coiled in shells of loneliness
until love leaves its high holy temple
and comes into our sight
to liberate us into life.

Love arrives
and in its train come ecstasies
old memories of pleasure
ancient histories of pain.
Yet if we are bold,
love strikes away the chains of fear
from our souls.

We are weaned from our timidity
In the flush of love's light
we dare be brave
And suddenly we see
that love costs all we are
and will ever be.
Yet it is only love
which sets us free.

Takk for alt

Al

Orhan's Inheritance, A Novel

    Aline Oanesian, an American of Armenian descent wrote this novel in response to a story told to her by her grandmother when Aline was a girl. Aline's grandmother's story was her experience during the Armenian Genocide. Her grandmother was largely silent but broke her silence this one time to Aline. 

    Aline has done a superb job of combining the pathos of the genocide with an intriguing modern fiction that brings the story to our times. Of course it's not easy to read of genocide but the novelistic gifts of the writer who moves the story between 1915 and the 21st century makes it a page turner. Armenians are tormented by Turkish refusal to admit that this genocide happened.

"The Armenian Genocide^[a] (also known as the Armenian Holocaust)^[12] was the systematic mass murder and expulsion of 1.5 million^{[note 2]} ethnic Armenians carried out in Turkey and adjoining regions by the Ottoman government between 1914 and 1923.^[13][14] The starting date is conventionally held to be 24 April 1915, the day that Ottoman authorities rounded up, arrested, and deported from Constantinople (now Istanbul) to the region of Angora (Ankara), 235 to 270 Armenian intellectuals and community leaders, the majority of whom were eventually murdered.

The genocide was carried out during and after World War I and implemented in two phases—the wholesale killing of the able-bodied male population through massacre and subjection of army conscripts to forced labour, followed by the deportation of women, children, the elderly, and the infirm on death marches leading to the Syrian Desert. Driven forward by military escorts, the deportees were deprived of food and water and subjected to periodic robbery, rape, and massacre.^[15] Most Armenian diaspora communities around the world came into being as a direct result of the genocide.^[16]"

Wikipedia 

I highly recommend this book.

Takk for alt,

Al  

PS I'm back at Lisa's for a few days.

Memories of the USMC on Memorial Day.

    Don't 'thank me'  for my service. The Marines were good to me and I have fond memories, though now long distant. Of course I was one of fortunate ones serving between the wars in Korea and Vietnam.
    Boot camp was three months, Sept-Dec. '59, in San Diego, followed by a month of infantry training regiment (ITR) at Camp Pendleton, CA. Every Marine is, first and foremost, a rifleman so that training comes before the myriad other possible assignments. Following ITR I was assigned to a unit at Camp Pendleton. Working in the office of a rifle company I assisted with the the administrative duties of the company. Our company was approximately 50% like me, just out of boot camp, and the other 50% had just come back from a year in Asia. In June of '61 the 50% of experienced Marines left us, we received replacements from boot camp and we sailed for Asia. It took us 28 days via liberty ship to sail from San Diego to Okinawa.
     While home base was Okinawa we did cold weather training in Japan on the slopes of Mt. Fuji. This is why I have 200 color slides of Fuji. For several months our battalion was aboard the USS Princeton, LPH 5, an aircraft carrier converted to carry helicopters. This "ready battalion" duty was to provide a landing force for quick deployment in Asia. This time also included some time ashore, in the Philippine Islands, where we lived in former POW barracks at Subic Bay. When we returned to America, this trip on the Princeton only took two weeks, and the remixing of the company happened again. With my enlistment completed I was discharged.
      What did the Marines give me? A life long friend. Ed and I were in the same platoon in boot camp so we were acquaintances. Our real personal connection happened on the bus ride home after boot camp. Ed, headed for his home in eastern Iowa, and I to eastern South Dakota, shared a 24 hour ride to Omaha. Two mid-west farm boys discovered much in common. As luck would have it we were assigned to the same office in the rifle company after ITR. So, for the remained of my enlistment, we worked in the same office, he had the top bunk and I the lower, he had the right wall locker and I the left....
      After his discharge Ed worked for Alcoa Aluminium, in Bettendorf, IA for 40+ years while farming near Calamus. Through the years we stayed in touch and then I moved to Davenport, IA about 25 miles from Ed's farm. Living in Davenport from 1980-88 gave me much time with Ed and his family. It also gave time for Ed's wife, MaryJane, and Joanne to become very close friends. Not only that our children grew up together.  To celebrate the 50th anniversary of our boot camp experience Ed, MaryJane, Joanne and I traveled to San Diego to revel in our past glory. 😃
    There were many other less tangible benefits from the Marines; travel, time to mature, etc. Never did I consider re-enlisting but neither do I regret the experience. Semper Fi

Takk for alt,

Al
Finished another great book which I'll report later...

Ed & MaryJane welcoming me to their farm last year.

     

Family Memories.

     Regularly I visit Joanne and the many other family and friends in her cemetery. Today I wandered another cemetery where my brother, maternal grandparents, several uncles and aunts and also my cousin's husband are buried. It's called the "Bergh Cemetery" but perhaps should be name "Bethania Cemetery" because that was the name of the congregation that once worshiped in the church that stood there. Rev. O. O. Bergh, my maternal grandfather, was the founding pastor. When he graduated from the Hauges Synod  Seminary in Red Wing, MN., he was sent to South Dakota in 1884 to found a congregation. He purchased 80 acres of land, built a house and a church on the property.
     One of my uncles, Martin Bergh, died in 1920 in an airplane crash at age 22. He was flying with a barnstorming pilot above his brothers working in a field. He leaned far out the open cockpit to wave at them, threw himself back into the plane hitting controls that caused the pilot to lose control and the plane crashed near the brothers. He died shortly after the crash.
     Ella Bergh, died in the flu epidemic in 1918 at age 28. Ella is my aunt. Grandma Bergh and her daughter Agnes did not get sick. They cared for Grandpa, and siblings Oscar, Martin, Ella and Margaret who were all sick at the same time.
      Richard Bergh Negstad, my late brother, was farming grandpa's land when he died in 1997. So it is fitting that he is buried in the Bergh Cemetery and not where the other Negstad's are. At the time of his death he was a South Dakota State Senator.
     Also buried in this cemetery is Rev. G. Evenson, a seminary friend of grandpas. Rev. Evenson's son, Ed, and my father were friends. Donald Evenson, Ed's grandson and I are friends and he's been known to post comments on this blog.
     Deep roots for which I'm grateful!

Takk for alt

Al

Plaque at the cemetery.

Brother.

Aunt.

Uncle

Al

Weeds again.

    Many of the plants we know as weeds were once garden flowers; think dandelions and purple loose strife. South Dakota classifies leafy spurge as a noxious weed. It's a woody plant that invades grasslands but is not an issue in ground that is tilled. Perhaps you've wondered what those yellow flowers are filling the ditches of the interstate highways around Minneapolis. Those flowers are leafy spurge. Euphorbia esula, commonly known as green spurge or leafy spurge, is a species of spurge native to central and southern Europe (north to England, the Netherlands, and Germany), and eastward through most of Asia north of the Himalaya to Korea and eastern Siberia. Why is leafy spurge a problem? Leafy spurge is an aggressive invader with stubborn persistence due to its vigorous roots and rhizomes. With leafy spurge invasion, native plant diversity is reduced. It replaces more valuable livestock and wildlife forage and the milky sap is poisonous to some animals. However, sheep and goats graze on spurge with no ill effects.
    Spurge has been appearing on my grassland. Do birds spread the seeds? The plants are few enough that I was able to hand spray today but scattered over a wide area.  
    Several years ago the township board mandated removal of trees from the road right-of-ways. It is the landowners responsibility to clear the trees from the adjoining road ditch. Chris, Rollie and David helped me clear the ditches which were very overgrown. Today I  cleared a half mile of ditch which had numerous small cedar growing. It's stoop labor plus the necessity of some kneeling and lying in the grass. Good exercise and no need to pay any gym fees and best done before ditch is over gown again.
      Viet Than Nguyen won the Pulitzer Prize for his novel, The Sympathizer, which I enjoyed. Now I've just finished his The Refugees, a book of short stories.  Nguyen gives powerful voice to Vietnamese refugees, and by extension, any who are forced by circumstances out of their homeland. The book conclude with two poignant essays on refugees and how people respond, or don't respond, to their plight. 
    I recommend both The Sympathizer and The Refugees.

Takk for alt,

Al

My lilac is blooming.

Hoping for rain!

     How's that for fickle? What a difference a day makes. The plan was, with rain predicted for Friday, to sit it our here for the weekend and plant corn next week. When the Friday rain fizzled and the forecast is for rain Sunday and Monday it was time to shift gears. Though the conditions were not optimum I planted today. Rain after planting is helpful to insure full germination therefore I've shifted from not wanting rain to hoping it does.
     Corn is highly engineered and is now sold by the kernel. My bags were certified to hold 80,000 kernels and they are programmed to mature in 103 days. This puts the ripen date about mid-September. The corn will be harvested by wildlife during winter so drying for storage is not an issue. Both fields are near good winter cover so the deer, pheasants and squirrels will be well fed.
      Bang! "What was that? When in doubt kick in the clutch. That was a very helpful impulse. One of the back tires of the tractor had run over an antler shed from a buck. Two of the tines of the antler were impaled in the tire and the bang was the antler hitting the fender. Fortunately, with the quick stop, the tire was not sufficiently punctured to flatten it. Replacing it would cost almost $2,000.
      An eagle was circling overhead for much of the time I was planting near Lake Joanne. The carp are spawning in the overflow from the lake so the eagle should have good fishing. This eagle sighting, while I'm farming, is a first for me. So happy about their restoration..."thank you" Rachel Carson.

Takk for alt.

Al

PLANTING CORN

PLANTING CORN

"A rose by any other name...."

     Dad remembered the first dandelion he ever saw. It was growing in the farm yard and he wondered "what's that pretty yellow flower." For many a child it's the first bouquet of summer picked for mommy. Imported from Europe, dandelions are now ubiquitous and abhorred more than cherished. The presence of dandelions, once a garden flower, raises the question "What is a weed?"
    Perhaps the easiest answer to that question is "A weed is a plant growing in the wrong place." Though, one might wonder if there is any right place for a thistle. Yet, as I write this I'm reminded that bees, butterflies and other pollinators love thistle blossoms. My late brother, Richard, once said "Hitchcock should do a horror movie about thistles."
     But, back to plants in wrong places. Of course that definition is very anthropomorphic, but then isn't all language? Cedar trees are the cause of love/hate relationships. In the 10,000(?) trees I've planted many have been cedar. In retrospect I regret not having planted more as cedar, as Emerald Ash Borer will eventually threaten many of the green ash planted. Cedar make wonderful winter cover for wildlife when planted in multiple rows. Cedar volunteering in grasslands meet the above definition of a weed. Without some form of control they will fairly quickly invade the grass.
      Burning is a very effective form of control. Grazing buffalo (bison) are another effective means. Mark, who raised buffalo for several years, put a herd into grassland filled with invasive cedars and within a few hours the buffalo had eradicated the cedar. Cattle just graze around the cedar, unlike buffalo. Some of my grassland is not amenable to burning, nor do I have buffalo. This afforded me several hours of stoop labor today, good exercise for my back, as I wandered grassland, clipping off cedars at ground level. Coniferous trees die when cut off below the lowest branch. Bird poop! That's how cedars spread. Birds eat the cedar berries and that's why so many cedars grow in fence lines where birds have pooped.
     Another issue with cedars in grasslands is that they provide perches for hawks. From these perches hawks spot their prey which are often pheasant, nesting ducks and their chicks.  Large fields of grass devoid of trees benefit certain species of wildlife so I'm favoring some at the expense of others.
      It was a beautiful day to be out standing (and walking) in the field.

Takk for alt,

Al

Patience is a virtue

   "Rain, rain go away come back again some other day."  This is a line I remember from my mother. Today, I headed to the field first thing in the morning thinking it'd disc them and be ready for planting Thursday before Friday's predicted rain. Field number one was a bit wetter than optimum but I pressed on. When that was finished I went to field number two. Way too wet!.  I had to detach the disc and pull it out with a chain. It wasn't a good drying day with intermittent mist showers. So, wait I will and I may as well wait here.
    The gift of internet and books accessible makes waiting very tolerable. An article in the Washington Post today told of persons who have gotten accustomed to quarantine who are now reluctant to go out. That's not my situation, yet, but for safety's sake I'll venture out very carefully and on a very limited basis. The Little House is comfortable and I can safely shelter here while I wait for dryer weather. It's another sign of how blessed I am that I have such options.

Takk for alt,

Al

When in doubt,read!

     Too wet!  The dryer of the two fields was still too wet. Not to be denied I disced it anyway. After consulting the weather forecast I decided to postpone further field work for another day. If the forecast is accurate there should be sufficient time to plant before the predicted rain on Saturday.  A bit of tinkering with my tractors followed but left me with time on my hands.
      So, what did I do?  My Name Is Lucy Barton, Elizabeth Strout, called to me. How to characterize this book is a bit of a puzzle. Were it not a novel it would be a memoir. It is all told as Lucy's memory, much of which relates to her impoverished and abusive childhood. Lucy not only recounts what she did but, even more, what she thought and felt. Many pages are from her hospital room where she spends weeks recovering from an unspecified surgery.   While she is hospitalized her mother comes to visit bringing sharp focus to the unusual mother daughter relationship.
     Having read and enjoyed Strout's The Burgess Boys, some years ago Lucy did not disappoint.

Takk for alt,

Al

Winter Soldier

     Holding a book with a cover and real paper pages is a gift. It's the best way to read. Given the necessity of social isolation during the pandemic Kindle, linked to a lending library, is also a great gift. Having finished Pachinko and needing another book I turned to The Washington Post's Weekly Book Club which recommended The Winter Soldier, Daniel Mason.  Hennepin County Library had it in stock so to my Kindle it came.
     Lucius is a medical student pressed into medical service by Austria near the front lines during WW I. It's a rich novel which explores Lucius experience of war, penance, family, chance relationships, historical medical practice and in an important period in history. Significant to the book is the puzzle over what we now know as PTSD.  Author Daniel Mason is a physician and that informs the major emphasis on the the practice of medicine in the book. It's a gripping story but very graphic in parts. Decisions lead to haunting consequences.
     Yes, I highly recommend it.

Takk for alt,

Al

Road hog!

Happy Syttende Mai!

     After a three generation Zoom call with my family this afternoon I walked from The Little House to the cemetery. It's 25 months now that Joanne has rested there next to my Negstad Grandparents. Memories of 54 years of marriage flood in. Wonder about my Grandparents, both of whom died before I was born, is always a part of the visit. Not far away are my parents and just a little father an uncle and aunt. Harold, who smoothed my enrollment at Augustana College, now University, isn't far from Joanne. Ervin and Freda, neighbors and siblings who died in farm accidents a year apart, are near. Joanne is surrounded by community "a great cloud of witnesses." Our family roots in the community go back to 1885. Naturally the visit stirs grief and an acute presence of absence. Visiting others interred there is always a part of my experience. To that end I think this from Garrison Keillor fits.

"In old unread book I opened and found, pressed between the leaves, a piece of yellowed handstitching: '“Elizabeth Crandall is my name And America is my nation. Providence is my home And Christ is my salvation When I am dead and in my grave and all my bones are rotten, if this you see, remember me, when I am quite forgotten. 1845.”'

Takk for alt,

Al

Adventures

     Tomorrow is the 17th of May, Norwegian Constitution Day...Syttende Mai. A couple of days ago an envelope appeared in my mailbox here in South Dakota. There is no door-to-door mail delivery in Sinai, the town which hosts The Little House On The Prairie. Because I have house in town I'm entitled to a free mailbox in the local post office. The envelope was addressed to:

                       Mr. Al Negstad

                                                "The Little House on the Prairie

                           Sinai, S.D. 57061

    I do have a box number, 34, but my name was was sufficient. The envelope contained a beautiful Syttende Mai card from Christoper and Karl. The card reproduces Christoper's watercolor "Norsk flagg og Blaveis."  Today FB announced that Karl did a tumble on a sidewalk..."uffda Karl."

     Perhaps you remember my local post office story of a few years ago. Visiting with the postmaster, now retired, I asked her if I should do a "temporarily away" form, as I was making my last visit of the season to Sinai. She said "No, if anything comes for you that looks important I'll tell your brother season, to Sinai. She said "No, if anything comes for you that looks important I'll tell your  brother."😃

    

     Subject. plowing:  It was a good decision to finish plowing yesterday. Today brought a beautiful, gentle rain of .75".  While I was plowing on one trip I didn't fully raise the back gang of the plow as I turned around the end. This left a neat 50' strip of sod turned 'black side' up. Turning 'green side up' was a good reminder of the weight of sod.

Takk for alt,

Al

Lake Joanne.

Pachinko

    It's a gift to have children who read. Lars gifted me with the Frederick Douglass Biography at Christmas. Lisa has been recommending books to me since I began quarantine in her house.  Among those Lisa has recommended is Pachinko, Min Jin Lee, a great story (MJV, Have you read it?).  It's the story of a four generation,poor, Korean family who move to Japan during WW II. The discrimination that Koreans experience in Japan is a very significant part of the book. Written well as a compelling story, this novel employs significant jumps in time very effectively,
    "This is a captivating book I read at the suggestion of a young staffer on my team---a historical novel about the Korean immigrant experience in wartime Japan. Min Jin Lees's novel takes us through four generations and each characters search for identity and success. It's a powerful story about resilience and compassion."  President Barack Obama
    Pachinko received the 2017 National Book Award for novels. 
    Well, of course I recommend it. 😊

Takk for alt,

Al

Plowing completed!

     With rain forecast for tomorrow I decided to do the plowing today. It went well but I'm too tired to write much. Stories are stacking up so if it does rain tomorrow I'll post them.

Takk for alt,

Al

Chopping stalks.

Plowing.

For a time such as this.

     Living in the midst of the uncertainty, the anxiety. of this pandemic we could use a gentle man with a cardigan sweater to reassure us. Mr. Roger's Neighborhood taught, inspired and encouraged an entire generation.  As you read his word picture his show.
  
    Salt Project produces a Theologian's Almanac each week as part of their communications. This week they talked about Fred Rogers’ 2002 Commencement Address at Dartmouth College. Rogers was a Presbyterian minister who considered his children's television show, "Mister Rogers' Neighborhood," his ministry. Here’s part of the address, which speaks to us    all:

"I’d like to give you all an invisible gift. A gift of a silent minute to think about those who have helped you become who you are today.  Some of them may be here right now.  Some may be far away.  Some, like my astronomy professor, may even be in heaven.  But wherever they are, if they’ve loved you, and encouraged you, and wanted what was best in life for you, they’re right inside your self.  And I feel that you deserve quiet time, on this special occasion, to devote some thought to them.  So, let’s just take a minute, in honor of those that have cared about us all along the way.  One silent minute...

Whomever you’ve been thinking about, imagine how grateful they must be, that during your silent times, you remember how important they are to you. It’s not the honors and the prizes, and the fancy outsides of life which ultimately nourish our souls. It’s the knowing that we can be trusted. That we never have to fear the truth. That the bedrock of our lives, from which we make our choices, is very good stuff."

    "It's knowing that we can be trusted..."  Over the years I've liked to say "You can't improve on honesty."  integrity is priceless!  Knowing we can be trusted nourishes our souls.

Takk for alt,

Al

Joanne's resting place.

It rained!

   After two long, ambitious days it dawned on me this is not a race (see poetry below. The small rain received was an affirmation of a slower day. Putting the bathroom back together after frozen pipes and plumbing repair was was a huge reminder. I AM NOT A CARPENTER AND PARTICULARLY NOT A FINISHER! But, it's done and I doubt Joanne would complain.
    Mechanical work is more my speed. I'd rate myself a C mechanic and a D- finish carpenter. "Measure once, cut twice and it's still too short." Tractor B, hasn't bee running quite right. Driving down the road in road gear the engine will hesitate a moment and restart with a tremendous backfire. When I checked my diagnoses, faulty coil, with Ed he concurred that it was a good guess. After installation of the new coil the tractor started...that's always good news...but the test will come when I put it to use.

    This poem speaks to my decision to have a slow day.

Against Speed
by Jonathan Greene

To be anywhere
you have to speed down
and walk slowly

to know intimately
just your small plot
of earth

that was given to you
by luck and
divine Chance.

Driving by—
so many racing
beyond the speed limit—

you learned nothing
except life has
passed you by.

Takk for alt,

Al

Today's prairie picture.

Still standing but hoping for rain!

    One field is wet, one field is dry. Chopped the stalks on the dry field today. Dilemma? Before I can plow, the stalks on the wet field should be chopped so they don't plug the plow. If I chop them they will make a vegetative mat which will slow the drying. However, the standing stalks also prevent drying and the disturbance of chopping will do some to assist drying. 
    Fifty per cent chance of rain tomorrow. Rain would be a good opportunity to rest and do some things in the house.  Rain would give me another day to plan the next operation on the wet field. Let's all pray for rain.
    Sitting on the tractor the pandemic seems very remote. When the nearest person is a mile away it is serious social distancing! 
   Speaking of the pandemic Grace University Lutheran's daily blog had this post.

I wish you courage for the next step and the next.
I wish you peace in the middle of the storm.
I wish you unexpected joy,
Strength to see you through,
And a heart wide open to all the love surrounding you.

Lyrics and music by Barbara McAfee, the leader of Morningstar Singers,


Takk for alt,

Al

Prairie view.

Par the course but no golf.

    A flat tire, dead battery, snow plow damage, air compressor failure and a frozen power takeoff shaft defined my day. Par for the course when dealing with old machines and building.  A number of years ago I acquired the town repair garage. Once it was full of tractors but now it has been pared down to four.
       When I first owned it there was a gas pump in front. The garage is across the street from the fire hall and a fire truck backed into the pump and dislodged it. A raised concrete slab covered with iron remains where the pump stood. Without proof, I blame a snowplow for peeling the iron into a 'C' curve.  Flattening the iron was my first task...quarter inch steel has a mind of its own!
       During winter I store my flatbed trailer in the garage. Tractor A, a 1950 Farmall M, started but had a flat front tire. For the 25? years I've owned the garage, which was built in 1907, the integrated air compressor has faithfully inflated everything I've brought to it. Today I turned it on so I could use a pneumatic impact wrench to change the tire. What, no air?
       Back in the dim confines of the storeroom where the compressor lives the electric motor was running but the compressor was not. After 25 years of my use, plus how many before me,

it just faithfully chugged away. Two. almost inaccessible, burrs loosened, belt tightened, burrs tightened and there was air for the impact wrench. A tire was changed.
       Tractor B,  70s something, International 706, turned over a few times and then...that dreaded nothing. Dead battery...where's the battery charger?  Hook up the charger and while the battery is charging drive out to the field.  Yes, it's dry enough to work but there are too many corn stalks to plow with out chopping first.
      The old stalk chopper stands next to the field.  Is it ready?  No, the power takeoff shaft that powers the chopper when attached to the tractor is frozen stiff. So, it's back to town for grease, tools, a chain, etc. Chaining the truck to the shaft dislodges it...lubricate it and the chopper and tomorrow???
    Meanwhile back at the garage Tractor B, starts. Does this mean that I will actually get to the field tomorrow?  Stay tuned for the next episode of a man outstanding in his field.

Takk for alt,

Al

Outstanding in his field.

Tractor A.

Where's Al?

    Let's hope Lisa doesn't file a 'missing person' or 'geezer last seen" report. Traffic in Minneapolis and suburbs was light. The county roads never have much traffic and I couldn't see that there was much less today. News that farmers have much of their corn planted and are starting on beans awakened the latent farmer in me. Fields are dry? I could plant my corn?  Loaded with two weeks supply of food I headed west.
   First stop, as always, the cemetery.  Reuben has now joined Doris after 11 years of  his bereavement. They're only a few feet from Joanne. Readers may remember them both as my Luther League Advisors and landlords in my second year of college. It's always a good reminder to see my name in stone. Someday someone will look at our marker and say "he outlived her by....."  She should be here with me sitting in her brown Lazy-boy reading a good book.
    A small detour took me over Highway 81, now raised another thirty inches, it's the third raising. The first time I think it was five feet and the second ten. This should be the final becasue it is now above the level at which Lake Joanne flows into Lake Sinai.
    The furnace failed in The Little House On The Prairie last winter and some pipes froze. No serious damage and plumber Tom made the repairs a month ago. A HVAC company from Brookings fixed the furnace which is helpful...42 degrees outside at arrival.
   Serious plans to play in the dirt, except calling it dirt is a no no. It's properly called soil.  Just call me a man of the soil.

Takk for alt,

Al

View from the front steps of The Little House

Foxy

     "Dad, come and look at this" was my early morning summons. Hailed to a view of mother fox eating a rabbit on our front lawn, this was the latest sighting. It was several weeks ago I first spotted a fox in the cemetery. It watched Trygve and me for awhile and then picked up the squirrel it had captured and ran off through the grave stones. She has six kits and their home is a twelve inch culvert in the cemetery.  St. Mary's is huge, 600 plus acres with 66,000 interred. This morning there was a carcass of hen mallard near their den.
     Seeing the fox reminded me of a story.  One of of my young parishioners played football at Wahpeton State College. Wahpeton was playing St Mary's in Bismarck at St. Mary's one beautiful clear fall day in the stadium looking over the Missouri River Valley.  An eagle was circling above the stadium and a father was pointing it out to his son. Suddenly the eagle made a dive and came up with a rabbit in its talons. The son was upset but the father gave him a long lecture about nature, how nature works and the natural balance between predator and prey. Finally the son broke in saying "But Dad, if you're the rabbit it sucks!" much to the merriment of the nearby fans.
     We had a very good view of the fox but the rabbit paid with its life.

Takk for alt,

Al

Live fox, dead rabbit.