I get mail!

          My health insurance company is worried about me. Today's mail revealed this missive from them. It reads in part "Allan, based on our records, you may need to complete the following actions by Dec. 31, 2020......It's never too late to be active. It can help you stay strong and fit so you can keep doing the things you enjoy. Talk to your doctor about what activities might be right for you. This could be as simple as dancing to your five favorite songs or taking your dog for a walk." 😀 Well, I do take Trygve for a walk, but nothing is said about picking rocks. Though, I did quit after two hours today because the 25mph wind was annoying. WOW there's whitecaps on my little pond!  Well, whatever....

        Rock picking challenges my perfectionism. Today I decided I'd better not try to pick up all the little ones and concentrate on those tennis ball size and larger. Further, I have to be okay knowing that I will not get every rock and I may not even get over the whole field. Perfect can be the enemy of the good.

        Last night was the first time I've used the TV in The Little House since moving here May 1. Two observations from that watching: $70,000 for hairstyling perhaps wasn't enough, and, Mike Wallace was either over his head or he should have been given a mute button.

       I'm blessed and grateful!

Takk for alt,

Al

Skill set!

       It was a relief to resume picking rocks this morning. Rock picking is a skill set that I've mastered. Hanging blinds.??? not so much. Seeing how much ground there is to cover, rocking has taken on a bit more urgency. When either the ground freezes of snow comes the season will end until spring.

      With the approaching cold I lengthened my workday. The wind at 23 mph beats me up. It's very tiring so I called it quits after six hours. Many fields of soybeans have been harvested and the farmers with whom I've spoken are encouraged by the yield. Yields in the mid-50s seem quite common. Prices are up a bit becasue of the crop damage from wind and drought in other areas. China is also buying more.

      Today is Trygve's 11th birthday. He ran for three hours in the field this morning. In honor of the day I gave him a special food treat. 

      There is a TV in The Little House which only receives PBS because there only rabbit-ear antennas. For the first time in years I turned it on last night to see if it still works; it does. Perhaps I'll turn it on tonight to see what at $70,000.00 haircut looks like.

Takk for alt,

Al

                                                                            The birthday boy.

                                                                     My morning haul.

"Measure once, cut twice, or?????

      Today was another huge reminder of why I seldom do home improvement projects. While I'd accurately measured the window opening a decorative molding foiled my attempt to install the new blinds. After working all morning to see a path around the moldings without success I called the blind makers. After waiting 3 hours for a call back a helpful representative walked me through an external mount procedure.  New blinds and mountings for that process are now on order and are included on warranty.

    At the conclusion of the call the representative very tactfully suggested that in the future I call and get help before submitting an order. Such a good idea, however, the chance of me ever doing this again is almost nil. 😕  The reality is that it makes picking rocks look good.

     Filled out my absentee ballot today and now I'll walk to the post office and mail it. Voting is a very satisfying experience. 

Take for alt,

Al

                                    For my random picture of the day I chose mangroves in Cambodia.

Weather report...

      For the first time in weeks it's raining, though the radar makes it look as if  isn't going to amount to much. It's been very windy, 27 mph when I went to the cemetery and the mowers were there so I didn't stay long. It annoys me that they mow on Sunday but...... 

     The rain will change my Monday plans. It will be too muddy to pick rocks. The Little House on The Prairie came equipped three styles of window treatment. The guest bedroom has some odd venetian blinds that are translucent, my bedroom has two windows with metal venetian blinds, the three standard windows on the east wall, living room and dining room, have roman shades. The roman shades are aldo translucent. In a paroxysm of home improvement I ordered shades for all six windows. UPS delivered them to my door (they know where Sinai is 😁) last week. With today's rain and tomorrow's predicted wind perhaps I'll hang them. Holding them up to the windows assuaged my fear of mis-measurement, that sort of thing is not my cup of tea.

    The wind was blowing leaves past my windows making it look very much like autumn. Autumn is followed by winter so spring can't be far away. 

    A stump grinder appeared and quickly turned the stump, of the tree behind the garage, into a sizeable pile of grindings.Fascinating man operating the grinder which is a side job, he also does foam insulation, has his funeral directors license, scuba dives for vehicles that fall through the ice and sells small buildings. He said "I get into trouble if I'm idle."  People I meet......

Takk for alt,

Al

                                                                        Grinding.

                                                      The split of the double trunk shows.

                                                                         Freshly cut.
 

                                                                    The pile of tailings.

Living without adult supervision..........

         It's been two and a half years since Joanne died and for most of that time I've been without adult supervision. Lisa and Lars do the best they can but they're mostly at a distance leaving me on my own. Today is one in which supervision would have been helpful.

      Periodically my church offers a men's breakfast virtually via Zoom. Tom has encouraged my participation so today was to be my first foray into this gathering. The breakfast is scheduled from 9:00 a.m. until 10:30. At 9:00 I opened my phone only to discover that I had to pre-register. Realizing the error of my ways I emailed an explanation and apology to Tom.

    An appropriate penance, it seemed to me, would be to use the time to pick rocks. Hard labor would assuage my guilt and embarrassment. Thinking "two hours picking rocks should set the record straight." Off I went to the rocky field. Judging that it must be two hours now I looked at my watch only to discover it was THREE HOURS. Does this mean I get extra credit?  "My how the time flies when you're having fun." Or as the frog said "My how fun the time is when you're having flies."  And then...the picture I took of my rock collection....I missed getting only a glimpse of the pile. 😏 (See picture below.)

      After returning to The House I washed Trygve, me, load of clothes and found a little lunch. Opening my phone as I ate lunch I discovered Tom had sent me the link to the breakfast shortly after I sent my apology to him. Any applicants out there for the role of adult supervisor?

      Ya, then....

Takk for alt,

Al

                                                                  Use your imagination! :)

"The spirit is willing but the flesh is weak."

       It seems as if I've read that about "willing" and "weak" someplace. It's an apt description of my morning, after setting out to do three hours of picking rocks and quitting after two. Andrew Nelson's statement came back to me "Tomorrow's another day and if it isn't it doesn't matter." Those glacier gift rocks will be there waiting for me another day.

     Attitudes and perspectives change. Rock picking, my least favorite job as a boy, doesn't seem as odious now. Today's weather was perfect, 70 degrees with a nice breeze, helped. The fact that it's my property is a factor. The ability to start and stop as I wish, matters. Physical exercise with no gym fees resonates. The reality of a worthy challenge motivates. 

     Seering how little space I cleared indicates that this is a project that will occupy me for days. It's something I can do until the snow comes or ground freezes, whichever is first. Perhaps some will still remain when spring comes.  

    Good work, good weather, good exercise💪,so many blessings, don't you wish you could join me?😅

Takk for alt,

Al

The largest rock this morning which was buried so deep only about as much as an inverted dinner plate was showing. The two smaller rocks were  buried beside it.

                                                            Rocks enhance the dam crossing.

                                                                       A tree in town.

"Take it from the top"

     Many things I am not including a musician. However, I've heard much music including "Take it from the top." This is a very different taking it from the top. It is tree removal in tight quarters. It was the largest chinese elm I've seen. Bounded on the north and east by power lines, the south by my garage and the west  by a water meter it came down in pieces from up high. Only at the end was it revealed how fortunate I was.

     The tree was growing behind the garage where my tractors live. Ever since I bought the garage I've worked around and under it. Recently noting how it towered over the utility pole with two transformers I decided to contract for its removal. A crew of four arrived at 8:00 a.m. and by ll:00 the tree was down, the wood removed and the ground raked. 

     Watching the process reminded me of ballet as the men moved in practiced concert. In conversation I learned that they did tree removal on Wednesdays and Saturdays, the days they had off from their regular jobs. The man in the bucket high overhead knew just how to cut the big branch that stretched far over a powerline. 

    Last there was large four foot stump, 8 feet in circumference, which was cut off just above the ground. When they tipped it over it came apart longitudinally. The tree had two trunks growing so closely that it appeared to be one. This feature would reduce the tree's ability to withstand wind as either part could split off. It's very fortunate that never happened and it came safely down. 

    Just one more way I'm very fortunate.

Takk for alt,

Al

                                                                             Before

                                                                                  During

                                                                              Timber!!!!!!!!!

                                                           Notice the split in the stump.

                                                            After, raking up the debris.

Exceptional!

      The book had to be good because Hillary sent it to me and she knows literature! Good? It was exceptional! When have I read a book that I enjoyed as much as Winter Wheat by Mildred Walker? (Spoiler alert: don't read the introduction by James Welch because he gives away the plot 😠.) The book was first published in 1943 and reissued by Bison Press in 1992.

       The book's setting is a Montana wheat ranch (I'd call a farm) the University of Minnesota and a country school. The protagonist, Ellen, is an only child who grows up on the ranch and goes to the University when she graduates from high school. It's her father's insistence that she attend college. Ellen is a very winsome character and the story revolves around her awakenings to family life. Her parents met during WW I, when her father was in the American Army in Russia, is wounded and nursed back to health by a young Russian woman that he marries. After the war they homestead in Montana. Naturally I could relate to the farming issues, both good and bad.

       Ellen teaches for awhile, at a remote, one room, school where she lives in the 'teacherage' connected to the school. Her school experiences resonated and are very authentic reminding me of the eight years I spent as a student in a one room school. One of the events was a terrible blizzard where she kept the students at school overnight. It reminded me of the time a blizzard started when I was in school with my siblings. Our school had neither radio nor telephone. Dad came to get us in the blizzard with a bobsled pulled by a team of horses. He was taking no chances on us getting lost in the snow.

      With many things to recommend it there is also a fascinating study in family systems. Ellen's discovery of the reality of her parents and their relationship is fascinating. Ellen's Mom, Anna Petrovna, a Russian peasant, became a favorite character for me.

       Walker's prose is so compelling it was hard to put the book down. She's written at least a dozen other books but this is the only available through the Hennepin County Library. Have any of you readers read any books by her?  She wrote 9 of her 13 novels will living in Montana. This book gets five stars out of five!  (Thanks again, Hillary.)

Takk for alt

Al

      

We fell into Fall!

        Has there been a nicer first day of Fall than today?  At least the day meets my standards; sunny, light breeze and high temperature about 80. However, if I'm candid, I have to admit I can't clearly remember the weather on any other autumnal equinox. Whatever the past, today is exceptionally fine and I am enjoying it.

       Fieldwork has always been my favorite part of farming, at least when there are no breakdowns. Today there was just one small issue with the disc that allowed me to use some mechanical skills. Riding the tractor in such beautiful weather it was a joy to finish aerating that field of grass. There's plenty of time to think on the tractor so I planned my attack for rock picking.

      Elmo Agrimson was my first bishop in N.D.  He argued that farmers were thoughtful becasue fieldwork gave them so much time to think. None of my tractors have radios and if they did I wouldn't turn them on.

     Thinking of radios reminds me of a story from childhood. My older brothers, as teenagers, bought a used radio and put it in the barn so we could listen to it as we did chores. Dad thought that was foolish. The radio soon died. Before the brothers did anything about it Dad went to town and bought a new radio for the barn. He'd discovered he could here the news and farm markets while he did chores, and so, he had changed his mind.

Takk for alt,

Al

                                                                  Missing my students.

Gentleman farming.

       In the summer of '57 I worked for a farmer and we put in long hours. Breakfast was at 5:30 a.m, dinner at noon and supper at 9:00 p.m. We worked from breakfast, with a half hour for dinner and quit at supper time. No more! Now I'm a gentleman farmer. Several hours in the field this morning was enough. It reminded me of Andrew Nelson. Andrew was a local trucker and he was hauling grain from our farm to town when I was a boy.  His truck was loaded at 4:00 p.m., and he said "This is my last load for the day. Tomorrow is another day and if it isn't it doesn't matter."  It would have been easy to finish aerating that field today but I thought "tomorrow is another day....." so I quit. Besides finishing it will be a good project for tomorrow.  

      This quote is from a delightful book (I'll write about it when I've finished it.) "The days went by like wheat sheared off by the sickle, shredded into minutes and quickly lost sight of in the constant stream flowing out of the spout into the grain bin. I lost track of them."  So true. Saturday I tried to call the Social Security Office in response to a letter. In fact I tried twice before I realized it was Saturday and that's why they didn't answer. 😁 That's the way the days go by!

    The aeration has turned up many gifts of the glacier, also known as rocks. Picking rocks is in my future. More good projects for another day. Eighty degrees today. Does that qualify as Indian Summer? We did have very light frost some days ago. Excellent weather for harvest. Some years farmers have struggled with wet conditions, rain and even snow. Unless there is a radical change there shouldn't be any combines stuck in the mud.

Takk for alt,

Al

                                 Want to borrow the equipment for your lawn?

                                                        Moisture will be better absorbed.

                             Trees by my pond are just beginning to show fall colors.

The dead are mostly alone.

        In my frequent (2-4 times a week) visits to the cemetery perhaps three times there have been others there. My family was not in the habit of visiting cemeteries. When Joanne and I lived in the Twin Cities we'd put flowers on her parent's, grandparent's and aunt's graves for Memorial Day. Other than that we seldom, if ever, visited. When I was at St. James, Crystal, MN., there was a widower who would sit in a lawn chair by his wife's grave in the Crystal Cemetery for hours regularly. I don't do that, my visits are frequent but not long. It comforts me the check in so I'm very grateful that Joanne chose to be buried here.

        Today the smoke from distant fires is heavier than I've ever seen. It's not unusual to see red sunrises or sunsets from fires in Canada. This is different. This smoke is clearly visible at ground level. I ache for those who have suffered from the terrible fires out west. It's been windy all day, 20 mph. from the south, and I wonder if that brought the smoke.

        I remain alive, well and grateful!

Takk for alt,

Al

Thatch

     How long has it been since you had your lawn aerated?  Thatch builds up you know and it's good for the grass to aerate it occasionally. That's also true of grasslands. Natures way is via prairie fires. However, burning is not always feasible becasue fire is not always easy to control. One of my neighbors was burning some grass near his barn, (not recently) the fire got away, his barn burned. Fortunately he had no livestock.

      One of my grass fields was inaccessible for several years because of high water. Year after year the grass would grow profusely, die and turn into thatch. This dry summer, three truckloads of rocks on the crossing and now the field can be reached. It has been bailed, so today, I was picking rocks on it and noticed a thick layer of thatch. The mowing and bailing did not disturb the thatch as much as I hoped. So, the Monday project will be to aerate it.  It's always good to have project, perhaps I'll even take a picture.

       Such is life in and around The Little House!

Takk for alt,

Al

                                                 In normal times I'd be at Noble Academy these days.

Birds are migrating

       At sunrise this morning the yard of The Little House was filled with flickers. Flickers aren't usually seen in Sinai so these must be migrating. Robins disappeared then some days later there were many in the yard but now they're gone. Blackbirds are flocking up. Hawks are moving through. Water birds; ducks, pied-billed grebes, egrets, pelicans and great blue herons are still here. The bitterns, both american and least fly up, when I walk by the big slough west of town. Autumn is almost upon us. Some of the maples in town are showing red.

      My usual migration to Thailand will be replaced by hunkering down in the little house. Thailand is suffering financially becasue about 30% of their GNP comes from tourism. The borders have been closed to tourist for months. The latest scheme floated by the Thai government is to open to tourists that quarantine for 2 weeks on arrival and stay for 3 months, with renewable 3 month stays. Past practice was that arrivals got a 30 day visa which could be renewed at a customs office.

      The two hours I spent walking in grasslands this morning will be replaced by what come winter?  Normally I'd be teaching at Noble Academy these days. Even if I could go now masks would make it impossible for me to hear the students. It was a struggle without masks becasue of my hearing issues and their soft speech.

       While I'm alone I'm not lonely. That's primarily becasue of the telephone. Phone conversations keep my connected and my people bladder adequately filled. Truly I'm one of the lucky ones. A friend said the other day "Were Joanne still with us she'd fill the time phone banking for political candidates." True, she'd thrive on that while in isolation.

Takk for alt,

Al

               

                        These fishermen are fishing in what once was Quail's front yard.

Hope...

      It's a wrenching time. CDC records 194,530 American COVID deaths...boggles the mind...Des Moines, IA's population is 194,163. How would we respond to the deaths of everyone in Des Moines? yet we got rather blithely on. Horrific fires in California, Oregon, Washington making the sun glow red in South Dakota. Hurricane Sally inundating Pensacola, FL. Should climate change deniers in high places be held liable?  "Chickens come home to roost" we said on the farm. 

      What gives you hope at times like this?  With Philip Booth "let love move (us)"

 Philip Booth

Hope

Old spirit, in and beyond me,
keep and extend me. Amid strangers
friends, great trees and big seas breaking,
let love move me. Let me hear the whole music,
see clear, reach deep. Open me to find due words,
that I may shape them to ploughshares of my own making.
After such luck, however late, give me to give to
the oldest dance… Then to good sleep,
and - if it happens - glad waking.

                                        Today's selfie.

Takk for alt,

Al

Lake Sinai

        Sinai, the village in which stands The Little House on the Prairie, takes it's name from Lake Sinai, a couple of miles away. In 1907 when a railroad track was run from Sioux Falls to Watertown, the town was platted as a water stop for the steam locomotives. Lake Sinai Lutheran Church, stood a half mile west of the new town and that's the site of the cemetery where Joanne is buried.

      In the early days of white settlement some pioneers travelled by the lake, the shores of which had been recently burned by a prairie fire. The retreating glacier had deposited many rocks on the hills by the lake and one of the men said "It looks like Mt. Sinai" and the name stuck. Local pronunciation calls it "SignYai" which is somewhat near the Norwegian.

    During the 1930s the lake dried up and was farmed. When rains began to replenish it some farm machinery was inundated and never recovered, In the 1940s it was huge cattail marsh famous for waterfowl hunting. By the 1950s it was a small roundish lake perhaps a mile across each direction. Then came the 1980s and since with climate change and increasing rainfall it grew and grew spreading over seventeen hundred acres, flooding roads and farm places. 

     In its more original  configuration it was about two miles east of the farm on which I grew up but now is within a mile. My father owned a threshing machine and banded with other local farmers to thresh grain in the fall. Helmer Quail, and his son, Howard, were part of that "threshing run" as it was called. They lived a mile and half south east of our house. The lake has swallowed up their farmstead and now only the silo remains on a little island totally surrounded by water. Fortunately Howard had quit farming before the rise of the water and had moved his house to town.

     

     The soybean harvest has now begun. Combines that harvest a 40 foot swath at one pass make quick work of a field. About a week ago the temperature dropped to 37 degrees and there was some frost in low lying areas. It's almost to the time that a frost would be welcome to speed the crops drying and kill the green weeds in the field.

Takk for alt,

Al

             The driveway to the Quail farm was long and hilly and must have been difficult in winter.

                         The lonely silo marks the place where the Quail farmstead was.

   

Joy
by Julie Cadwallader Staub

Who could need more proof than honey—

How the bees with such skill and purpose
enter flower after flower
sing their way home
to create and cap the new honey
just to get through the flowerless winter.

And how the bear with intention and cunning
raids the hive
shovels pawful after pawful into his happy mouth
bats away indignant bees
stumbles off in a stupor of satiation and stickiness.

And how we humans can't resist its viscosity
its taste of clover and wind
its metaphorical power:
don't we yearn for a land of milk and honey?
don't we call our loved ones "honey?"

all because bees just do, over and over again, what they were made to do.

Oh, who could need more proof than honey
to know that our world
was meant to be

and

was meant to be
sweet?

"Joy" by Julie Cadwallader Staub, from Face to Face. DreamSeeker Books, © 2010. 

      Bees and honey......  My dad used to keep bees. There were a few hives left when I was small. One nice summer day, when I was maybe 4 years old, I was tagging along behind my older brothers. It being warm summer I was barefoot, wearing bib overalls without a shirt. The brothers were near the bee  hives where they'd lift the cover of a hive, quickly replace it when the bees responded and move to the next hive. Trailing in their wake I lifted the cover off the first hive to see what they were looking at. The bees, already agitated, quickly swarmed me. The hives were about 100 yards from the house. By the time I reached my mother I was well stung. Fortunately allergy was not an issue then nor since.

      For about 20 years a beekeeper kept bee hives in my pasture. Rent was paid with honey, 12 2 quart jars! That's a lot of honey. Because we couldn't use it all we were able to gift much of it. Anything that allows us to be givers is a gift!

       This is a honey of a day; 80 degrees, sunny, with a nice breeze. Another good day to be on a tractor.

Takk for alt,

Al

PS Saw some late dandelion blooms and bees were on them.

Perspective

     A friend recently forwarded a statement, which I've lost, suggesting that it fit me. The effect of the statement was I'd reached a point in life where many things do not disturb me. It's true, much of what once might gotten a rise out of me now no longer does. Today's situation reminded me of how fortunate I am.

     A couple of small tractor jobs were waiting for warmer weather, which was predicted for today. A typical pattern is to read the papers after breakfast and then use the morning for outside projects. Today began damp, chilly, with fog. The tractors do no have cabs so I just waited for the sun and warmth later in the day then did the work. . It's indicative of the relaxed lifestyle I live. Blessed, fortunate....totally!

    My project took me into a field of grass. I'll post pictures which show what this area looked like (minus the trees) before white people came, this being tall grass prairie. The hood of the tractor pictured is over 5" high, so that will provide some perspective. The dominant grass is big bluestem. Before burning a couple of years ago switchgrass was dominant.  No, I don't know why the change.

Takk for alt,

Al

                                                                            Yes, I'm proud!

Learning

     David Von Drehle, an opinion writer for The Washington Post was in a conversation with his daughter about her college philosophy assignment regarding two ancient Stoics. He writes about that conversation: "Stoicism is too often misunderstood to mean surrendering to helplessness. As I heard it in my daughter’s reading, the philosophy taught almost the polar opposite: a radical embrace of individual responsibility. Stoicism puts its students into a given circumstance and issues a challenge: Do the best you can. Here’s a billion dollars: What good can you do with it? Here’s cancer: What dignity can you mine from it? Here’s fame: What humility can you foster through it? Here’s grief: What compassion can you learn from it?"

      "Here’s grief: What compassion can you learn from it?"  Reading that led me to ask "What have I learned from my sojourn in the land of grief?" Have I become more compassionate? I hope so. Certainly I've learned to take less for granted, be more intentional about relationships and, I hope, less judgmental.

       Cemeteries have always fascinated me. That's no less true now that there is one in which my name is found. Twice I've visited that cemetery, where Joanne reposes, today. It was a stop on my morning walk and also an afternoon destination.  It's a bit surprising to me how much comfort I find in those visits.

    So, what have you learned from your grief? What do you need to ask of a loved one before it's too late?

Takk for alt,

Al

      

This day....

        It was a huge auction. Two rings selling for much of the day. The seller, male, was a hobby farmer and tractor collector. The seller, female, had so many quilts for sale that they were sold folded, by the yard or some such measure. 

      My bidding results went like this: bicycle too high, shovel too high, tractor with loader too high, 3 point sprayer too high but I bought it. The sellers lucked out with weather, yesterday overcast with afternoon rain but today overcast with one brief shower. It's an incredible amount of work. The ten tractors sold well.

      Standing around all day is hard work but sales are fascinating.

Takk for alt,

Al

                                                               A few of the tractors.

                                                                        A few of the quilts.

Revelation

    Early in my traverse of the land of grief I often wrote about the conspiracy of silence that often descends on the bereaved. After the death of a loved one family/friends hesitate to speak of the deceased out of some discomfort while the bereaved was anxious to hear the name and the stories. Sam, whose own place in the land of grief solidified when his beloved wife, Mary, died last December, sent me this:  "'Our October Book Club read. Quote from Prologue:' "At the very least, we must tell our stories, mustn't we? Speak the names? You know, there's an old proverb that says, 'We die once when the last breath leaves our bodies. We die a second time when the last person speaks our name. The first death is beyond our control, but the second one we can strive to prevent."    Very well said, thanks, Sam.

      Changing the subject radically: I'm perhaps the antithesis of an early adapter.  I've long been aware that I'm a very visual learner; remembering much better what I read than what I hear. These months in self-chosen isolation I've been sustained by reading both in print and on screen. A couple of rainy days spent inside have caused me to realize, that good as my eyes are, I can't read endlessly.

       A couple of times I've listened to podcasts produced by my daughter-in-law for public radio. Today being a rainy day I decided to take the plunge into podcasts. The technology has been available via my IPhone and the handy dandy hearing aids the VA supplied. The audio of the podcast goes directly to my hearing aids so hearing is not an issue.

     Opening the podcast app of the phone Oprah's Book Club pops up and I find she's in conversation with Isabel Wilkerson about Wilkerson's book Caste. Oprah calls it the most important books she's ever read and gave it to all the governors, CEOs of major corporations and many others. Two sessions, of eight, have been recorded. Both of them were fascinating.

      When I reported on the excerpt of  Caste, in The New York Times Magazine, a few days ago I said it was a good companion to Nancy Isenberg's White Trash. In the podcast Wilkerson had this to say about class and caste. She said: "You can act your way out of class, you cannot act your way out of caste."  That's a very helpful distinction. She also said "Color is a fact, race is a social construct" and "caste are the bones and racism is the skin."  I'm eagerly awaiting. the next installment.

     Podcasts are a option for long winter nights, yes, I'm grateful.

Takk for alt,

Al

"We all make choices!"

        Raise your hand if you've heard me say "We all make choices!" 😁 Even in my self-imposed isolation myriad choices confront me. This morning I choose a nice walk at sunrise, chose to follow it with breakfast followed by two hours walking in prairie pasture. The prairie pasture walk was planned for yesterday but rain ( .1") met me at the door so I chose to remain in the house and finished reading Sigh Gone., which, in retrospect, was a good choice. "We all make choices" is what I unleash in the presence of victimhood.

Choices
by Tess Gallagher

I go to the mountain side
of the house to cut saplings,
and clear a view to snow
on the mountain. But when I look up,
saw in hand, I see a nest clutched in
the uppermost branches.
I don't cut that one.
I don't cut the others either.
Suddenly, in every tree,
an unseen nest
where a mountain
would be.
 

       Rain isn't moot now except for the corn and soybeans which are ripening past their use of fresh moisture. Pastures, trees, lawns and grassland still welcome rain and replenishing the moisture of earth is important. Walking in the prairie pasture revealed an encouraging stand of native grasses, especially big bluestem, returning in response to spring grazing. Thirty years of the practice have made a difference.

Takk for alt

Al

                                                    A random prairie picture.  :)

Cow tipping and veracity in literature.

        Perhaps you've had the experience of a friend telling you that when they were in college they went 'cow tipping.' In the dark of night they entered a cow pasture and tipped cows over. There are at least three good reasons to doubt their veracity. First, cows sleep lying down. They do not have the bone structures in their knees which horses have which horse can lock allowing them to sleep standing up. Second, no self respecting cow would allow a stranger to get within cow tipping distance, they'd quickly move a safe distance away. Third, even if a college student, or anyone else could approach a standing cow it wouldn't be physically possible to tip it over. Cows have excellent balance and even a very small cow would weigh 600 pounds and many holstein cows weigh 1200 pounds or even more.    

       Is anyone wondering what set me off about cow tipping?  Reading a memoir of a man's recollections through childhood and high school, in mentioning his adolescent misadventures, he mentioned cow tipping.  After reading the first paragraph of this blog it should be apparent to readers that I don't believe anyone goes cow tipping. Reading his claim immediately raised in my mind questions of the author's veracity. If he would make up fictitious cow tipping as fact what else may he have fabricated? 

       Perhaps it really doesn't matter as the memoir is fascinating, readable and searing as a "misfit" navigates teenage angst. The book is SIGH GONE: A Misfit's memoir  of Great books, Punk Rock. and the Fight To fit In, Phuc Tran. Tran accompanied his parents to America as a small boy when they fled Vietnam as Saigon fell to the communists. Settling in Carlisle, PA., the book details his struggles to assimilate and survive. Racism, both overt and covert, complicates the struggle to come of age in a foreign culture. Read this to get a first hand account of the pain of being refugee in a alien place. 

       Tran's redemption comes through his love of literature. Obviously brilliant, when he discovers great literature he finds an entry into academic acceptance and a place in society. As he enters high school he affiliates with punk culture and cohort. While this leads to significant delinquency the total acceptance ethic of punkism allows him to also be a serious student. His punk friends are mostly academically unmotivated but they celebrate his academic success. Graduating 14th in his class he is voted by his classmates as one of four to speak at graduation. The books concludes with his high school graduation.

      I highly recommend it.

Takk for alt,

Al

Caste in America

      America's Enduring Caste System: "Our founding ideals promise liberty and equality for all. Our reality is an enduring racial hierarchy that has persisted for centuries."  So writes Isabel Wilkerson, in an article in the July 5, 2020 issue of The New York Times Magazine, adapted from her forthcoming book Caste: The Origins of Our Discontents. She is also the author ot The Warmth of Other Suns, about the great African American from the south to northern cities.

     She writes "Throughout human history, three caste systems have stood out. The lingering, millenniums-long caste system of India. The tragically accelerated, chilling and officially vanquished caste system of Nazi Germany. And the shape-shifting, unspoken, race based caste pyramid in the United States. Each version relied on stigmatizing those deemed inferior to justify the dehumanization necessary to keep the lowest-ranked people at the bottom and to rationalize the protocols of enforcement. A caste system endures becasue it is often justified as divine will, originating from sacred text of the presumed laws of nature, reinforced throughout culture and passed down through generations."   P. 31  She defines caste: "Caste is the the granting or withholding of respect, status, honor, attention, privileges, resources, benefit of the doubt and human kindness to someone on the basis of their perceived rank or standing in the hierarchy." P. 33.  She quotes Mississippi Governor James K. Vardaman, elected in 1903, "Anything that causes the Negro to aspire to rise above the plow handle, the cook pot--in a word the functions of a servant, will be the worst thing on earth for the Negro. God Almighty designed him for a menial; he is fit for nothing else." P. 50.

     Helpfully reminding us that race is a social construct not a scientific one she cites the work of geneticists tracing the human genome.   

      A fascinating section treats of narcissism. "...with groups trained to believe in their inherent sovereignty. 'The essence of this overestimation of one's own position and the hate for all who differ from it is narcissism' wrote Erich Fromm. 'He is nothing but if he can identify with his nation. or can transfer his personal narcissism to the nation then he is everything.'" P. 53. Think Nazi Germany with millions blindly following Hitler. Narcissism in impervious to logic, the narcissistic leader is always right and facts mean nothing, the nation/party/tribe is everything. 

      Wilkerson has done for race what Nancy Isenberg has done for 'class' in her book White Trash: The 400-Year Untold History of Class in America. I highly recommend it, too.

     

 Now I've shifted into 9 months of being cold. One of my thermometers read 38 degrees this morning but I think it exaggerated, probably the low 40s.

Takk for alt,

Al

That was interesting!

           "That was interesting"  is a comment often heard among my people when they're everything from appalled to fascinated and don't want to be negative. In this case it's a reference to the latest book I've finished.  Code Girls: The Untold Story of the American Women Code Breakers of  World War Two, Liza Mundy, is indeed interesting.

         Searching for a history book immediately available, electronically, from the Hennepin County Library I found it. Shortly before World War II, the United States had almost no code breaking capability. As young men were drafted for military service, just before America entered the war, young women were recruited from colleges and universities for code breaking. The project was so secret they didn't know for what they'd signed up until the arrived at their destination, often Washington, D.C.  The code of secrecy was so imprinted in them that many never revealed what they had done and a few only after it became public 75 years later.

         Recruiters went to the universities seeking the top female students and many of those they found were extremely brilliant.  Ten thousand women joined this effort often working 24 hours a day in three shifts. Wildly successful they cracked both the codes used by the Germans and the Japanese, both of which used many different ciphers. 

       Results of these code breaking efforts allowed the U.S. Navy to successfully defeat the Japanese Navy. The German submarine dominance of the Atlantic was defeated when the code breakers were able to intercept and translate coded German messages to and from those submarines. Similar success was achieved when the code breakers abilities were used to deceive the Germans about the site of the D Day Attack on Europe. The effectiveness of these efforts had a major impact on the war.

      A significant theme of the book is the capabilities of these women while still having to negotiate the sexism of the time.  One incident found one of the most effective code breakers, a Navy WAVE, having to wash windows at the behest of a ranking officer who had no idea of her job nor her status. Woven into the story of their work are biographical details about their former lives, their relationships and the men whom they knew were fighting in the war. An epilogue follows many of the key players with details about their lives after the war. One of the most touching parts recounts the code breakers, family members and friends, who come to Mundy's book tours, with more personal stories.

       In all it's good read though sometimes a bit confusing because of its organization. Not having to pass a test on the details I just kept reading without trying to keep everything straight. Perhaps an editor could have been more helpful.

Takk for alt,

Al

A fall rain has brought .5" with the possibility of more. 😊

Listening

 THEOLOGY

If you study the leaves

each is a little book,

and the stems of grass

are lines of poetry.

Where is the patience

to hear what the wind

keeps telling us?

The blackbird in the bush

sings a psalm of summer.

Listen.

R. R. Strahan 

    Ah, yes, listening, so often admonished so little practiced. Listening to nature is one thing, listening to each other in another. While another is speaking I'm soooooooooo tempted to concentrate on preparing my reply that I don't really hear what the other says. Uffda!

     Our morning walk took us through the cemetery. There we surprised a deer, maybe gloating over the grave of a fallen hunter.😉 The road on which we walked was very quiet, one vehicle went by during the hour we walked. We were teased with .2" or rain last night, more is predicted so here's hoping.

Takk for alt,

Al

                                                         A view from our morning walk.

    

COVID as Sabbath

 Wendell Berry (born 1934)

Sabbath

The mind that comes to rest is tended
In ways that it cannot intend:
Is borne, preserved, and comprehended
By what it cannot comprehend.

Your Sabbath, Lord, thus keeps us by
Your will, not ours. And it is fit
Our only choice should be to die
Into that rest, or out of it.

    The problem with rules is that we quickly mistake the rule for what it is intended to secure. Martin Luther made a mistake when he said "If you make confession voluntary people will flock to it." Ya, right. Many Lutherans are not even aware that private confession is included in Luther's Small Catechism. Compulsory confession also has its drawbacks.  You may be able to force people to confess but you can't force them to mean it.

     So it is with sabbath. It's intention is pure gift; time to relax, focus, give thanks, renew. No other culture had thought of such a thing when the Hebrews began to take a weekly sabbath rest. Many of us remember rules about what could and couldn't be done on Sundays. 

     The babys been thrown out with the bathwater as reaction to legalistic rules about Sunday have been replaced with "anything goes." This has not been in our best interest.  Perhaps we should frame COVID as sabbath: relax, focus, give thanks, renew.

     This morning I spent a bit of time picking rocks out of a field. Of all the things I didn't like about work on the farm as a youngster picking rocks was the top of the list. Every winter frost would move more rocks, left by the retreating glacier, high enough to turned up by tillage. On cold, windy, spring days, with dirt blowing in our faces we'd lug rocks to a wagon. Those too big to lift would be rolled on to a stone boat. But, rocks are hard on machinery so now I continue the practice of picking. 

Takk for alt,

Al

                                               Sunset on my little pond.

Grateful!

     Trygve and I are back in The Little House. Lisa kept Trygve while I was in the condo so I wouldn't need to go out very often....safety you know!  Had the opportunity to lawn visit with Lars and his family this morning. I certainly miss the weekly evenings with the girls...someday again. Lars sent a fresh loaf of his sourdough bread and Lisa banana bread. 😁  20 years ago I hadn't heard of hostas and now Lisa sent more to plant by The House.

     This my 13th "procedure" without which I would likely have died by age 60! So I am grateful, for the technology, doctor's skill, insurance that pays for it and Lisa's chauffeuring me. None of this do I take for granted and gratitude is the appropriate response.

    This is Labor Day Weekend. Weekends aren't so special in retirement. While I was still working I asked a newly retired person about retirement. He said "It's like all weekends." I said "What's a weekend?'  😊 Now the only day that's different for me is Sunday. Checking my watch tells the day of the week, not that it matters much.

   Feeling very fortunate!

Takk for alt,

Al

                                              Random pic of the day;  a prairie picture.

Written for me!

 They Accuse Me of Not Talking

by Hayden Carruth

North people known for silence. Long
dark of winter. Norrland families go
months without talking, Eskimos also,
except bursts of sporadic eerie song.
South people different. Right and wrong
all crystal there and they squabble, no
fears, though they praise north silence. "Ho,"
they say, "look at them deep thinkers, them strong
philosophical types, men of peace."
                                                                   But take
notice please of what happens. Winter on the brain.
You're literate, so words are what you feel.
Then you're struck dumb. To which love can you speak
the words that mean dying and going insane
and the relentless futility of the real?


Hayden Carruth, “They Accuse Me of Not Talking” from Collected Shorter Poems 1946-1991. Copyright © 1983, 1992 by Hayden Carruth

    Yup, that's me, monosyllabic introvert, "months without talking" well...hours at least! 😁 "Say something!"  "Who, me?"  One of the "North people known for silence."  "Words are what you feel."  So, if I feel the words must I also speak them. 😊 Well, I suppose if there is to be conversation.

    

Medical procedure is over, survival is imminent, "come back in two years", that's optimistic at my age. So return to The Little House awaits. The condo feels huge, almost 3 times as large as The House, but it has a nice view from the 15th floor, even if it's not snowing.

Takk for alt,

Al

                                         Snow seen from the condo...coming soon.