Queen Frostine- A Lesson in Grace

Queen Frostine- of Candy Land fame

My son Lake is a lot like me-- we are both early risers. In these early mornings we often play Candy Land. Queen Frostine is the jackpot of Candy Land. In the last couple of days Lake has taken to stacking the deck, in mom's favor.

"You go first mom. Look! You got Queen Frostine!"

I've often puzzled over the meaning of "grace." Other people seem to understand grace more intuitively than I do. I've had some first hand experience with Grace- in fact I perceive it is a rolling theme that I struggle to understand in my own life. A few months after our daugther Milly died, a little girl showed up on our doorstep-- literally. She was an adorable, clean, well-dressed baby of about 18 months. She was too little to talk, but could walk. I didn't recognize her from the neighborhood. Alma (then just 3) and I took in this baby- changed her diaper, played with her. I called the police. When I tried to hand her over to the policeman she cried and clung to my neck. The officer asked if I could keep her until her parents were found. After a couple hours the frantic mother burst in my front door and scooped her baby up (she had toddled away during her nap time). "Grace! Oh my darling Grace!" the mother sobbed into her baby's neck.

Lake extends Queen Frostine "Mom! You got Queen Frostine!" surprise- surprise. And it is grace-- it is grace handed to me at 5 am by my 4-year-old son. Grace in the form of his disposition towards kindness.

And for me the lesson somehow lies in the acceptance of that grace. That God's gifts can be manifest through me--imperfect and frail.

Waiting for the Blizzard to Come

Warm home- calm before the storm

We had a blizzard last Sunday-- more wind than snow- but an entire day of white-out. This was combined with deadly wind chills. The winds were gusting to 60 mph.

This picture was taken on the warm (relatively) evening before the storm. You can see the snow falling down- not racing horizontally across the plains. We were snowed in for 2 days- school closed.

We talked over dinner how anyone could live here without heat and light. Seems infathomable- impossible.
I remember to be grateful for a warm, bright house.

15 Months to Get Off-Road

Photo Credit: Baikal Ice Crack (anon)

How did it take me so long to get off the road? Off the trails? It took 15 months.

Every morning I walk the kids to the bus and then head out on my own. The road provided enough beauty, interest, safety that I never really thought to leave it on this morning ritual. Until yesterday.

I went cross country behind the abandoned farm stead and delapidated windmill. Through the plowed field, across the prairie. It was cold- 0 degrees and I'm wearing my new Carharts which are stiff-- this is harder than running. Just lifting my knees against the heavy canvas overalls through the snow. I followed footsteps- deer, pheasants, Happy's and a mans. I was surprised to find a man's footprints- Mike said there were hunters out a few days ago.

I pushed my way through head-high, thick reeds towards the slough. There are a lot more muskrat lodges this year. I walked out onto the ice. It was so clear and smooth it looked like open water. I stand looking into the crystal clear ice, the few cracks help me gauge the depth of the ice- 6 inches? There are areas of ice where the springs gurgled up and made cloudy ice. I observed this last year and now in winter #2 I know these spots are springs where the ice is built up and tan.

My heart pounds-- the ice might be thick-- but I'm alone. On a pond. In December. Before the sun is up. There are springs scattered around "our side" of the slough. I walk out to a snowy area in the middle of the slough and make a snow angel. This greatly disturbs Happy who barks loudly in my face at my being prone. High strings of clouds are sailing by-- but the wind is not bad here on the ground.

I see my house to the north and make a bee-line. My bee-line takes me past my bee hives. I get on my hands and knees and put my ear to the hive entrance. I can hear them buzzing. Blessing to you little ones on this cold day. I dream of the honey I'll harvest next summer.

Up my porch steps- ruddy cheeked. The sun rises as I stand on my porch. A new day.

With a Grateful, Singing Hea

Jim Ed and Dale- MPR's Morning Show

Jim Ed and Dale have brought an eclectic mix of show tunes, folks songs, and more to Minnesota Public Radio for 25 years. Truth be told- much of the soundtrack to my life comes from these two characters.

In grad school (hope Dr. Graham is not reading) I spent two year of long, hot baths listening to these guys before I got on my bike to ride to the St. Paul campus. When best friend Char left for Ecuador there was the "Char show" on the Morning Show.

When Mike was courting me he sent cassette tapes of the Morning Show to me in Arkansas.

When my babies were born I danced around the sunny morning kitchens with them in my arms. When Milly was being delivered I was sining "You are My Lucky Star" over and over. I had heard it on the Morning Show the day before and it came to be the theme song for that darling babe.

In grief and in joy. In rest and in work. I've found comfort, hope, joy, laughter from these two.

Today was their last day in studio. I danced with each of my three children to their songs this morning.

There will be more such mornings-- I have recordings!

Thank you for your years of entertainment Jim Ed and Dale. Many of our lives were touched by your show. Every best to you in this next journey.

Looking for an Echo

photo credit- St. Paul Lutheran, Michigan

'Cause we were looking for an echo an answer to our sound. A place to be in harmony a place we almost found ooooh....' (lyrics by Ol' 55)

Last night was the elementary school holiday program. An original score and music by our very own music teacher Tammy Ragan. Do you realize what a gift she has and that she gives to these kids and our community? What's more the band teacher (James Pope) is a miracle worker. The 5th graders played Jingle Bells. Keep in mind that they've only had instruments in their hands for 10 weeks (at best).

We need the brightness of children and music in these short, cold days.

Because the news is not good. And it's not just bad "news" -- it is bad reality. Hard times are here for many and soon to be many more. I'll refer you to Sharon Astyk for a heartfelt and eloquent article on the seriousness of the times.

Musically, I've found the perfect echo. It is the best sound chamber I've ever entered in my life. The U of M St. Paul campus gym women's shower room. I know-- because I've been singing there. I've been singing this lilting, dark December songs that reflect the news of our times.

Let us pause in life's pleasures and count its many tears,
While we all sup sorrow with the poor;
There's a song that will linger forever in our ears;
Oh Hard times come again no more.

Tis the song, the sigh of the weary,
Hard Times, hard times, come again no more
Many days you have lingered around my cabin door;
Oh hard times come again no more.

While we seek mirth and beauty and music light and gay,
There are frail forms fainting at the door;
Though their voices are silent, their pleading looks will say
Oh hard times come again no more.

The Westerly View

View from my Pantry-- The Western Wall

Tonight I begged out of a sweet family trip to Milbank, SD to see Madagascar II. Instead I walked west into the sunset and gave thanks for the big sky- purple, pink, blue, with all sorts of swirls, rows, and wisps of clouds. The blazing sun sinking into the horizon like a Serengi sunset photo. The antidote for feeling worn out.

After putting in the chickens (surprisingly few eggs!) I came in to a glass of local sweet strawberry/grape wine (thank you Audrey!) and the urge to show you my pantry. What you see is garlic hanging from the rafters, canisters of black and white beans, and canned vegetables and apples.

I canned a modest amount of produce with a disproportionately large amount of time. Call it learning curve. Or perhaps just the amount of time needed to put up a bountiful summer's harvest. People used to spend hours each day tending, preparing, and eating food. Maybe I just experienced the reality of living closer to the land, where we count "food footsteps" rather than "food miles" (the distance one's food travels from where it is grown to where it is consumed).

This pantry is the concentration of a fruitful season of gardening and all its joys. I gained a sense of satisfaction and accomplishment with each sealed jar.

Proud of Our Kids

State Football Semi-Finalists- Clinton-Graceville-Beardsley (click on Proud of Our Kids under recent posts to see the whole team)

The congregation uncharacteristically burst into applause twice during yesterday's church service.

In the church announcements the pastor congratulated our football team for reaching the state semi-finals. People in the small congregation started pointing out the players and saying (rather loudly for Lutherans) "and here's the coach!" The place erupted in loud applause.

Let me just point out that there are 180 9-man football teams in Minnesota. C-G-B is among the top two in the State with their win last Friday in the Dome. Go Wolverines! It looked as though nearly every family in the district was at the game.

Later in the church service about 25 of our youngest were up front to play bells in the children's bell choir. It was lovely, I mean it really sounded lovely. The children were so earnest, engaged, wiggling around and hugging their bells when they weren't playing. It was moving on so many levels. Again the congregation erupted in applause. Like every community, we are just so proud of our kids.

But I would also like to add that I am thankful for the grownups who take all the time to coach our kids (my kids)- be it football, bell choir, girl scouts or 4-H. Thank you for your loving care, guidance, time and attention to our precious little ones- even the 6 foot, 200 # little ones. It is abundantly clear to me that the heart of this community lies with nurturing our youngest citizens.

The Gift of Good Family

Picnicking on the edge of our soybean field. Our farmstead in the background.

A week ago it was 77 degrees and I had company. This is the kind of company that gives a person a break-- my mom and my aunt. They helped with the last of the harvest- putting up beets, making applesauce, pies, crisps, cleaning the dry beans, and making good conversation. This whole farm and food endeavor would be a lot less fruitful without the help of my mom. I'm grateful for the gift of good family- for the moral support in addition to the labor.

The gift of good soil and good family. We count them among our blessings every night.

A Gleaning...

The other morning I replaced my morning run/meditation with gleaning- going through the harvested corn field to gather any corn left behind. My mental calculations were that I could feed the chickens for a few days, translating into less chicken feed to be purchased. It was an experiement too in response to a flurry of e-mails some months back about creating gleaning crews to gather in "leftover" organic vegetables. I thought I should try gleaning for myself.

I got the farm cart and a few 5 gallon buckets and headed out to the field. Three tractor passes happen with fall harvest:

1. Harvested with combine,
2. Stocks chopped with a chopper
3. A digger turning over the soil

I dragged my cart over the plowed field, into the chopped stock stubble, and over behind the combine (no one was out in the fields yet). I pulled the cart up and down the field-- looking every which way for corn. Let's just say the combine is pretty efficient. Some lessons:

- the edges of the field seem most fruitful
-this is darn hard work -- I only filled two 5 gallon bucket with chopped up corn chunks in about an hour
-I could only find the corn that was right under my feet (my plan to have my eyes sweep a 12 foot swath did not work). I walked up and down that field with my eyes glued to my feet.
All the time I was out there I had a song from Sesame Street playing in my brain.

"While looking at my feet at a crack in the sidewalk and finding a quarter and an old bus tokenI nearly missed a rainbow
I nearly missed a sunset
I nearly missed a shooting star going by"

At the End of the Rainbow

Vigeland Obelisk, Norway. Sculptor Gustav Vigeland. "Meant to represent man’s desire to become closer with the spiritual and divine. It portrays a feeling of togetherness as the human figures embrace one another as they are carried toward salvation."

The school bus arrives now before the sun is up— so I spend the first part of my run in the early steel grey dawn. When I got to the pond/slough down the road I stopped—not just paused, but stopped. The first thin skim of ice floated on the still water a few feet from shore. As I stood there a half-dozen muskrats jumped into the pond from right at my feet- maybe 3 feet away. Some of them did big belly flops- making a loud splash.

The sun was still below the horizon, but the sunrise was 360 degrees around me N-S-E-W. As I stood there the ice turned bright pink- right where I was standing. I felt, for the first time in my life, that I was at the end of the rainbow. Then one of those muskrats popped his nose up through the thin ice. Over my shoulder, in the squat, dark, dense little forest (it is very ominous looking and I suspected last year that a big cat- like a cougar- lived there) I saw a huge bird land in the tree about 30 feet from me. I thought to myself- I think that’s an owl. Who-who-whooooo comes from the tree.

I’m taking a new way home now- going cross county across the prairie. Some hunters ran their trucks over the fence to save walking a few feet to the slough. I try not to get crabby about those lazy asses and imagine instead that the tire tracks are some ancient trail. And who knows—maybe they are. At any rate- they make the walk easier through the waist/chest high grass. As I look to the north I see a shining neon pink obelisk some miles away. This tall sliver of light pokes up from the prairie and reflects the rising sun looking even more brilliant even than the sun itself. It’s some kind of monument, maybe to farming, or progress, or a failed past, or an uncertain yet hopeful future.

Pobrecitos

One thing about living on the farm is that the kids work harder. Alma helped a lot iwth the garden and farmers market. Here's a picture of the boys on their way to clean out the chicken coop with their Dad.

I remember taking a Global Food Supply course as a graduate student. I learned that in parts of the world, children start making an agricultural contribution at age 5 and that at age 7 some kids are doing enough agricultural work to supply their food needs for the year. How can that be?

Mike said when be brought them back in:
~They were more help this year than last!~

I'm thinking-- they were only 3 years old last year. Amazing that at 4 years old they actually help lighten the load a bit.

Last Summer Menu....

With the exception of beets, carrots and 1,000 feet of turnips (what do I do with 2 tons of turnips??)-- the garden is done for 2008. I just couldn't bring myself to erase the Last Summer Menu-- what with remembering eating the garden fresh sweet corn, basil pesto, stuffed peppers, and eggplant ratioullie...

Last night I took out the first frozen broccoli and added it to tuna noodle hotdish.
I think that about sums up the end of summer food.

Something Stinks

Morgan Stanley CEO John Mack- leaving the meeting with US Treasury Secretary Paulson after learning he is forced to accept $250,000,000,000 from US Taxpayers. KJD notes: Does this man look repentant, sorry, chagrined?

"That's a jig saw Mommy" my son Lake informs me as Mike cuts out the back of the kitchen wall to extricate a rotting mouse that was making us all gag. The kitchen had been smelling increasingly putrid over the past couple of days. Relief was immediate when Mike took out the mouse, uncharacteristically groaning with displeasure and telling the boys to run because they wouldn't want to see this!

That's not all. My mom was helping me clean out my pantry-- filled to the brim with scores of squash, couple hundred pounds of potatoes, dried beans, garlic, and canned goods. I grabbed a bag of potatoes and the bottom fell out in a soggy mess of rotted potatoes-- the smell rivaled the dead mouse. But I had to clean this one up.

I had a dream yesterday. In my dream I was sitting on a park bench with a colleague from the Bush Foundation. A baby carriage was beside us. Distraught, I told her "I spent 3 years working on the farm bill. It was $6 billion dollars. Now they passed $700 billion in 10 days." I started to cry. "I wasted three years of my life."

In real life I didn't work on the Farm Bill. Maybe I was channeling my Representative, Collin Peterson, who is the chair of the House Agricultural Committee. The fact remains, that the Farm Bill was $6 Billion and it DID take more than 3 years to negotiate. The Farm Bill includes Food Stamps, farm subsidies, agricultural research, biofuels, land conservation, and more.

The gentlemen above "reluctantly" accepted $250 billion of your dollars. Paulson et al. decided upon and spent that money in one weekend.
Something Stinks.

Orion Reposing

Orion- the hunter

When I wake up maddeningly early and look out my dining room window I can see Orion-- at rest. Usually you see Orion upright-- his belt and blade at his waist and feet beneath him. In the middle of the night, however, Orion rests on the tops of trees lining the east side of our property. He lies there on his side-- relaxing on his elbow-- not hunting for the time being. I've a kind of repoir with this early morning constellation-- "you just rest there-- I'll get the coffee going."

I woke up in St. Paul this morning and walked out into the "darkeness" of the City. I looked straight up and was surprised to see my early morning companion Orion above my head. Upright and at work already-- another day another Horsehead Nebula. I didn't know or remember that I could see Orion in the City.

A bit later in my St. Paul campus office I reached into my jeans pocket and was surprised to find a handful of soybeans.

What I want to say is how this split life brings a reality to both. I can now see the stars in the City because I have come to know them, personally, at home on the prairie. I can now work in the Agronomy Deptartment with soybeans from my own field in my pocket. In some ways it is all the more richer because of the contrast.

But man I'm missing my kids.

Mobilizing

Photo credit: MN Historical Society 1970
(No details with this picture- but I imagine it is a farmer with his banker. Here's hoping he kept that tractor through the farm crisis)

The countryside is mobilized to bring in the crops. Wheat is in- soybeans coming off the field- the corn has a ways to go. Friday I passed a field full of combines and semi trucks-- a harvest crew working together. It was impressive. On Saturday I watched my neighbor climb into his monstrous John Deere combine holding his 2-year old daughter's hand. She pranced around in a fluffy pink dress. I'm sure they both like the time together-- but with two fulltime working parents and farming, sometimes there is no choice.

It seems that people of this country mobilized against the Wallstreet bailout and their congressional representatives listened-- a victory of sorts for democracy. $700 billion is a lot of money and, in truth, I think it's ok to take some time to figure out the right path. There's some lesson here about honest work by real people for real products-- but I'm not sure I know what it is. Just some vague notions about hard times, hard work, sacrifice, integrity, and the democratic process. If you figured it out, I'd like to know.

Jens Jergensen and Peak Oil

“When the wells begin to peter out, the competition for the remaining petroleum resources will grow even fiercer. Are more than the 0.5 percent of Americans who now serve in the military willing to risk their lives fighting overseas so we can continue to live as we wish? Peak oil will force that question on us.

Rod Dreher: Peak Oil is Coming, and We're Unready. August 17, 2008—Dallas Morning News [Note: Rod Dreher is a self proclaimed “Crunchy Con who blogs conservative politics and religion]

My favorite, most savored moments of the day are when I put my boys to bed. I lay between them in their shared bed, looking back and forth between their two sweet faces. Jens smiling, Lake sternly plotting to be the one who gets to turn off the light when we’re done reading. One night after the light was out I looked at Jens, the sprite, who still holds the look of a cherubic toddler at age four. My mind flashed forward to him being a soldier—a conscripted soldier. This thought came out of thin air, nothing I’d read or seen on tv had planted the seeds in my mind. This boy—Jens in particular—is not being raised to be a soldier. He’s being raised with tender kindness, humored in his spirited nature, adored for his adorableness. There are not a lot of hard edges in his world. I looked at him and could see his grown up face startled by a world of violence. I could see him remembering me, his mother, and these times together. So sweet, so safe.
Dreher goes on to say:

“A famed U.S. military leader has warned that the fossil-fuel supply on which American civilization depends utterly will run out someday in the 21st century and that our nation cannot afford to place our hope in "the sentimental belief that the things we fear will never really happen. I suggest that this is a good time to think soberly about our responsibilities to our descendants – those who will ring out the Fossil Fuel Age," said Adm. Hyman G. Rickover, father of the nuclear Navy. In 1957.

We've wasted a half-century of precious time, another non-renewable resource. We probably don't have another one to spare.

Next installment: Can you live out both your dream and your nightmare at the same time?

Prairie Lace (Everything is Holy Now)

If there were a soundtrack to this post- it's this song. This U-tube video was composed as a gift and I'm borrowing it for the music.

The other morning there was ground fog-- heavy and wet-- but we could look straight up and see blue sky. I walked Alma to the bus and went for a run. There is a place not far from here that feels holy-- I stop running and walk down to the prairie. I get to the end of the path where it fans out into a grassy turn-around for hunters. It looked like someone dropped a tissue on a stem of bluestem grass. I walked up closer and see it's a huge, dew-covered spiderweb. I get on my hands and knees to look at the beautiful dewdrops, the intricate patterns and marvel at how this spider flew/hopped from stem to stem creating a 3 foot circle between a number of stems.
As I knelt there, I looked up towards the prairie as the pink sun was coming over the horizon, shining through the fog and this is what I saw.

The entire praire was filled with dewy spider webs -- every foot for as far as I could see. It looked as if thousands of shimmering lace hankies had been spread over the entire tall prairie grasses. At first I couldn't even understand what I was seeing. The angle of the sun and the dew had illuminated the entire prairie so I could, for the first time, see that every stem of grass was part of these intricate webs. The combination of dew, fog, and sun revealed a prairie world I didn't even know was there.

I look everyday to see if I can see those webs and I can't see them-- even up close. Minnesota songwriter, Peter Mayer captues my thoughts:

This morning outside I stood
And saw a little red-winged bird
Shining like a burning bush
Singing like a scripture verse
It made me want to bow my head
and I remember when church let out
how things have changed since then,
everything is holy now.

Everything Is Holy Now (Peter Mayer, 1999)

When I was a boy, each week
On Sunday, we would go to church
And pay attention to the priest
As he would read the Holy Word.
And consecrate the holy bread
And everyone would kneel and bow
Today the only difference is
Everything is holy now.

Everything, everything,
Everything is holy now . . .
When I was in Sunday school
We would learn about the time
Moses split the sea in two
Jesus made the water wine
And I remember feeling sad
that miracles don't happen still
But now I can't keep track
'Cause everything's a miracle

Everything, everything
Everything's a miracle . . . Â

Wine into water is not so small,
but an even better magic trick
is that anything is here at all.
So, the challenging thing becomes
not to look for miracles,
but finding where there isn't one.

When holy water was rare at best
I barely wet my finger tips.
Now I have to hold my breath
like I'm swimming in a sea of it.

It used to be a world half there
heaven's second rate hand me downs
but I'm walking with a reverent air
cause everything's holy now.

Read a questioning child's face,
to say it's not a testament,
now that'd be very hard to say.
To see another new morning come,
to say it's not a sacrament,
I tell you that it
can't be done.

This morning outside I stood
And saw a little red-winged bird
Shining like a burning bush
Singing like a scripture verse
It made me want to bow my head
and I remember when church let out
how things have changed since then,
everything is holy now.

It used to be a world half there,
heaven's second rate hand me downs.
I'm walking with a reverent air
cause everything's holy now.

Lyrics by Peter Mayer Copyright 1999 (ASCAP)

Rather Be Here Than Anywhere...

Prairie Sunset by Tom Lockhart-- Pastel
This was the view as I raced home to the farm tonight.

Earlier in the evening we had our first paid baby sitter out here on the prairie, got dressed up, and went to the vacant Beardsley Minnesota school for a wedding dance. [Aside- Beardsley- pop. 262- has some of the most beautiful brickwork school, church, and auditorium I've ever seen]. Not long after, the phone rang and one of the kids was very sick. All three kids, in some combination, had been home from school sick on Wed- Friday, but we thought we were safe (and due) for a fun night out.

Since we'd hardly started the evening I left Mike with a neighbor and headed back the 30 miles home. Those minutes in the car were the first moment I'd been alone in days. I opened the sunroof to a perfect September evening. Turned the satellite radio up loud to The Verve's "Rather Be Here Than Anywhere" and headed east.

I'd been having a few days where the 'new car smell' had left this adventure on the prairie-- a few hard days in a row-- sick kids, work stress, more tomatoes than I can sell, can or freeze, and when will that wind ever quit blowing?!!

As I headed down the road I saw a line of steel grey clouds stretching across the entire eastern horizon -- a few pinkish floaters in front reflecting the setting sun behind me. Then the moon caught my eye-- a full moon half risen over the bank of clouds. To my left and right were sloughs and wetlands and for a while a flock of ducks flew beside me, just parallel to my car. I could see the blaze orange/pink sun setting behind me in the rear view mirror. The fields of wheat stubble yellow against the still green landscape.

As I turned onto our gravel road--swerving sharply to avoid salamanders-- I could see an animal ahead on the road, either a coyote or very small deer. As I closed in, the tiny deer disappeared into the soybeans. I rushed into the house and scooped up my sobbing, pale, sick son. He's sleeping right here beside me now. It's dark and that same moon is shining right on me. And it is good to feel I rather be here than anywhere.

Frogs are Fine-- Abundant

Our farm is filled with frogs and toads. When I walk out around the garden, I actually have to watch my step to keep from stepping on them. Do you remember Rana pipiens? Remember catching frogs in the pasture?

The scientist (or child) in me keeps chasing down and catching the frogs. I'm "surveying" them to see if we have any of the famed Minnesota deformed frogs. Back in the day we had school kids catching frogs to report deformities. The research was eliminated in 2001, but it continues on my farm.

So far. So good. Nothing but healthy looking happy frogs. Brown, green, and red ones. Lots of toads too. I find it a comfort to live among so many frogs and toads. It means that something is right with this land.

Tell me- do you have frogs where you are? Are you having a good year for frogs?

Four Seasons-- An Update

I was stopped on mainstreet Ortonville the other day and someone asked me "what exactly did you end up doing with those eggs of yours?"

It has been one year since we moved here.
One years since we put in the order for those chickens.
I thought that I should revist some past posts and give some updates

~I've found a market for our eggs (Chicken Confidential) selling them to colleagues and friends at some of the meetings I attend in the Cities for $2.50/doz. My artist neighbor, Liz, is also a regular customer and it is nice to have a reason to visit with her on a regular basis.
~Artist Mark Mustful moved to Big Stone County despite the 15 inches of snow the day of his visit last April. It occurs to me that this lovely pottery has an integral connection to local foods as we will need stunning and inspiring butter crocks, bread bowls, grain keepers, and pitchers. James Kunstler says in his book "A World Made by Hand" that as our world became simpler we could no longer fail to incorporate beauty into the fabric of our everyday lives.

~The flash flood through our farm permanently destroyed about 30 acres of soybeans. We moved the bees to higher ground and they seem to be doing well. I opened the hives last week to check on them. The bottom box held dark amber honey, the upper box was pure, clear honey-like thick water. I stuck my hive tool into the honey comb, lifted my veil and tasted the wonderful sweetness of our farm's and the prairie's pollen and flowers.

~ We spent a month at the Ortonville Farmers market (Saturday mornings 8:30 to noon in front of the Columbian Hotel). Since this was our first year we are learning as we go. We've run out of vegetables except for tomatoes and our squash are not quite ripe. We'll spend a few more Saturdays there this year-- maybe selling coffee along with our veggies.

Here's a close up of less than 10 minutes of harvest time. That translates into 10 hours of processing to sauces and canning. This is exactly how I want to spend my Labor Day.

Saturday Night on the Prairie

A theater in North Dakota in lieu of the Mill Theater

People have asked me over and over what I miss about being in the Cities. At this point-- approaching one year-- there are no things or places I miss (just people). Good coffee, great conversation, interesting attractions are all around me here.

Let me tell you about last night. After doing our farmers market stand, Alma and I came home and started processing the vegetables that hadn't sold-- mostly the Amish Paste heritage tomatoes. We started making a big batch of ketchup. It was, however, Saturday night and we were all ready for some off-farm fun.

The boys had been begging to see Kung Fu Panda and so we were pleased to see it had returned for a 2nd run to Mill Theaters in Milbank, South Dakota-- 30 miles from our farm. We headed to main street Milbank and enjoyed dinner at the Triple Dip cafe that features ice cream/espresso. The movie theater is a main street gem showing 1st run movies. I'm guessing it's more of a public service than a lucrative business venture. Admission for five, popcorn, 5 pops, 3 candies came to $29. If we wanted to we could have stayed to watch Indiana Jones for free-- but that wasn't going to happen with kids.

It was as fun a family outing as I could expect anywhere. We drove home in the dark across the prairie-- the western horizon slightly purple and blue. Jen commented on the shadows of tree overhanging the prairie potholes looked like trees in the lake.

Living History in Big Stone County

One of the sights at the Big Stone County Museum

There are a group of folks coming together to Create a Value Added Community in Big Stone County. Through these gatherings I’m getting to know inspiring people, finding new treasures in the area (last nights people brought photos of a 1800's Rendezvous gathering, a kayaking stream, and a cormorant rookery), and working to make the Big Stone area a sustainable community for us (to quote Don Sherman).

We met last night at the Big Stone County Museum. This is a place of wonder and part of my awe was a brief conversation I had with Earl Komis, museum tour guide. Earl, nearly 90, was recently featured in Twin Cities Business Magazine in the 8 to 5 at 85 article. I learned just a snippet of Mr. Komis’ story.

In Minnesota, United States of America, around 1934 Earl Komis and some of his 11 siblings drew straws to see who would leave their farm. There was not enough food for the family. At 14 years old Earl drew the short straws and had to leave with just one loaf of bread. He walked 82 miles, sleeping in culverts and hungry. Along the way, a kind woman in Milan, Minnesota saw this hungry youngster and gave him a meal of grits. This act of kindness still catches in Earl’s throat 74 years later. Earl found a farmer needing help with 17 cows and was paid room and board for 2 years.

I asked Earl what he thought the future held in store for us—not just in Big Stone County but in our country. Earl, who lived through some of the hardest days our country has seen, said “The futures gonna be tougher than we’ve ever seen.

I’m bringing Alma to this museum on Friday (when the boys are down for their nap). I hope I can nab Earl as my museum guide and maybe even have a cup of coffee with him. Earl is part of the richness and blessings of living in a county with one of the highest percentage of people over 65 in the nation.

A Work of Fiction

Picture, 8/15/08, taken from the north side of our yard
Sometime in the not distant future.
My heart ran cold hearing the single engine plane circling above the township. I tasted the metallic bite of fear in my mouth as I glimpsed the plane to the west. The plane flew low, I wondered if it was some kind of reconnaissance.

My mind flashed back to the first time I’d seen a plane over this land. I was pregnant with my oldest daughter when a crop duster came to spray the corn crops to the north and the east of the house- right along side the house and yard. That would be 14 years ago now. I was so angry then—furious that I couldn’t protect myself and my unborn babe from the pesticides that were sprayed all over. We were just visiting my in-laws for the weekend. The farm was still theirs then and we lived in the city—safe from crop dusters. In fact, in those days part of my job was to reduce children’s and pregnant women’s exposure to pesticides. I remember feeling completely impotent to even protect myself and rage at my helplessness.

Later, after we had moved to the farm for good, I remember one day hearing and seeing the crop duster fly by. By then we’d been struggling a couple years to keep things going with spotty electric and even spottier access to diesel fuel. It was a comfort, to the point of tears, to see that plane in the sky tending crops the “old way. We didn’t have the connections and resources to buy seed corn and pesticides, but someone around here still could. If they could, that meant that there was still a system in place producing them. Things might get back to normal. It was a thrill to see that plane—it made my heart swell with pride for the sophisticated technology.

That was nine years ago and we’d seen no planes since. This plane felt like a bad omen. We’d been relatively free from looters over the years. Our crops our own--taking care of our neighbors as we could. Maybe we were faring better than others in the wider world, who knew? I regretted for the first time the garden and crops laid out in straight rows that my husband was so proud of; a clear sign from the air of our relative “prosperity. I was stunned by the next thoughts that went through my mind—could it be shot down? As the plane flew out of sight to the east I heard its engine whining and a distant repercussion.

None of us would be going to see what had happened to that plane, though I could guess. Today four families were gathering to make cheese. I subconsciously ran the math on the number of calories we would store up for the winter ahead. Enough calories for our 3 children for 3 weeks. This would be a good day after all.

Saying Goodbye on Mainstreet Minnesota

Jeanne Taylor, Small Town, 1940

Yesterday I drove many more miles across rural Minnesota on my way to St. Paul. One of the pure luxuries of living in 2008 is that I can get a very fine espresso in small towns throughout the state. I pulled into a parking spot on mainstreet MN, population 1007, and got out of my car for a coffee and scone. Joy of joys on lovely summer morning in the oak savanah.

As I got out of the car, there was a family gathered around the small late model SUV in the next slant in parking spot. The patriarch of the family was sitting in the passenger seat of the car. Elegantly dressed, thick well groomed grey hair, his eyes squeezed shut, and cannulas deliverying oxygen into his nose. I walked into the coffee shop, forgot my go cup and back to the car, I overheard the family saying that he could stay in the car and people could visit him there.

At the counter- the owner took my order then turned to some of the family members and friends of the gentleman and asked if they would be coming in. No-- they wouldn't be able to bring him in afterall. The owner of the coffee shop asked if he could go out to the car to say goodbye. "Of course. By all means."

The coffee shop was rearranged to recieved the man, his family, his friends. They all came to mainstreet to say goodbye. In the end, he couldn't come to that table. But people stood in mainstreet-- hugging each other, leaning into the passenger seat-- saying their goodbyes.

As I got into my car and drove out of town I was struck by the public goodbye, but even more by the empty table that was ready, but unable to be occupied.

In my minds eye I saw Pastor Arlan at the alter. Turning to the congregation- smiling-- saying "The feast is prepared! All are welcomed to the table." I drove on for miles with the tears running down my face.

Saying goodbye-right there on mainstreet. The table is ready.

Our First Worm

photo courtesy of Amy Stewart- worm author

I found my first earthworm on the farm yesterday. I pulled up a giant pigweed and saw the first worm in a clod of dirt. I was surprised to see it-- my surprise made me stop in my tracks. Worms have been completely missing from the soil- garden. In fact, I don't even recall seeing them skirming on the driveway after the rain.

I was struck with the sudden realization that our farm is absent of worms. And I hadn't even notice their absence until I pulled that first one out-- a 1 inch pinkish/blue worm. I ran across the field back to the house with the clod and the worm to take a picture for you all to see. Between the porch and the camera there was some kid emergency-- they got cold in the swimming pool and needed hot cocoa even though it is 84 degrees in the house, no breeze, and humid. By the time I got back to my clod of dirt the worm was missing. But it had been there- really.

It's good news that the worms are returning to our east field. It means the soil is coming back to life after all the anhydrous ammonia and pesticides.

Map of the World

On their back were vermiculate patterns that were maps of the world in its becoming. Maps and mazes. Of a thing which could not be put back. Not be made right again. In the deep glens where they lived all things were older than man and they hummed of mystery.

-- Cormac McCarthy, The Road

Our First Farmers Market Stand

On Saturday morning I was up before sunrise and in the garden picking our vegetables to take to the Ortonville Farmers Market. The half moon was over my head as the sun came over the horizon. The Mourning Doves cooing and replying to each across the fields. I pull a bush of snopeas into my lap and uncover a shining chunk of granite underneath. Even the rocks are beautiful in this field. I'm content with my morning coffee at hand.

We harvested new red potatoes, eggplant, broccoli, cauliflower, snopeas, and beets. I also brought along a platefull of some homemade, organic monster cookies.

Mike set up our small table in front of the old Columbia Hotel in Ortonville. Jame Howard Kunstler would agree that this old hotel is the type of architecture that makes America worth caring about and even fighting for. Our being at the farmers' martket doubled the number of farmers from 1 to 2. It was fun to meet and visit with the local folks-- got to see my former English teacher from high school in Silver Bay! We sold out of eggplant, new potatoes, broccoli, and cookies.

And Alma was a lot happier to be there than it appears in this picture. She stood on the sidewalk waving to every car and holding a sign she made that said "Vegetables." [Note to self, leave adorable, energetic boys on the farm next time]

I'm still thinking about how this plays out in our lives. At this point, it's not really a money making venture-- more of a social affair blended with community service.

Suffer No Illusions

Last Friday we laid Uncle Conrad to rest at Artichoke Lake, Minnesota-- a beautiful, lonely resting ground out on the prairie. Forty-five years ago there was still a general store at Artichoke and the name of the town appears on most Minnesota maps. But no people live there now.

The message at the funeral created a buzz around Big Stone County, in part because of the length, but mostly because of the content. The preacher, Brother Jobe, came straight out of the distant past or perhaps the not so distant future. He flew in from Pennsylvania (note--he wasn’t native to this place) and was presented the honor of giving the funeral message.

Brother Jobe’s message was old-timey, riveting, and delivered with the best oratorical skills I’ve ever experienced. I was rapt at his words and gestures. Brother Jobe called for the complete subjugation of women in business, church, government, and home. He called for the uplifting of men. The 80 and 90 year old women in front of me squirmed in their seats.

Out here on the prairie they suffer no illusions about women. Uncle Daniel said- with an economy of words that I lack- this land would not have been settled without pioneer women. Leadership, fortitude, grit, strength- was called for from every pioneer—man or woman. Men and women had different work- but every effort was needed and valued- a partnership for survival.

When a First Lady at the turn of the 20th century began a national campaign to eliminate girls athletics in high schools, rural Minnesota was among the very last to abolish women’s basketball. My grandma- who would have been 100- played basketball in high school. Why was rural Minnesota the last to ban women’s sports? Because those immigrants who settled this harsh prairie had no illusions about the frailty of women.

My Apologies for the Storm

I had last Friday off from "work" and so was able to wash 8 big loads of laundry and hang them to dry on the line. It was hot and my laundry made the air even muggier. The wind whipped through our clothes and blankets and up into the sky-- forming that thunderhead at the end of the line.

I've become somewhat addicted to the on-line weather radar from the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Adminstration. So much for just ~being~ with the weather. I want to know what storm fronts are forming across the Dakotas and heading my way. So as my laundry dried the radar showed moisture rising from my township in Big Stone County. The pattern over our farm formed a tiny smiley face :) of wet air rising. Standing in the yard, I could follow the wind straight down my lines of laundry, up into the sky to that thunderhead, and on towards the good people of Clontarf, Benson, and Willmar.

Glad no one was hurt in Willmar as that 8 mile path of tornado crossed the prairie. Sorry about your homes and buildings. I'll try to be more careful with my laundry in the future.

Trading Time for Mileage...

Photo credit: Gary Greff, www.EnchantedHighway.net
The high price of gas is helping me savor my time on the road. I've changed my route to take the single lane Highway 12 and lowered my speed from 80 to 55 mph. I like it.

The other day I left my house about 5:00 am and drove 40 miles before I met the first car as I was crossing the Chippewa River coming into Benson. At first I reflexively worried about meeting troopers, but at 55 I don't have a care in the world. Roll down the windows, open the sun roof, turn on the satellite radio-- listen to Bob Edwards interviewing Lester Brown. Actually, I listened to every kind of music imaginable. Thoroughly enjoying the journey instead of barreling towards the destination. When I got to the Cities -- merging from 394 to 94 --I know I was the happiest person on the road.

My gas mileage went from 22 mpg to 32mpg. Round trip I spent 2 extra hours in the car, but I saved $22.70 in gas.

The other nice thing about high oil prices is that I appreciate being able to drive- that I have a car, that gas is available, its preciousness now reflected in its price. I recognize that I have the freedom of speed and movement-- all freedom comes at a cost.

Have you ever considered how perfectly smooth a newly paved road is? It's a delight to drive-- not a bump nor blemish. I fully expect that when the oil runs out we'll have other cool fuels to run our cars. But what will replace the petroleum in asphalt? Look down at that road-- it is held together with oil. What will keep up our road infrastructure? No one knows. So I'm just gonna savor that long ribbon of highway stretching from Artichoke Minnesota to St. Paul.

Trading time for mileage- and a bit of gratitude.

What's Really in This Jam?

You might spread this strawberry jam on your toast and eat it without hardly registering the complex flavors of the organic berries picked in a drizzling June rain, the air chilly on the edge of cold, and the mingling of grief and comfort. These berries were cooked into jam straight from the garden on a grey June day.

Last Saturday started with the kids and I leaving the farm set for an adventure (well at least I was and the kids had no choice). We drove due south trying to find a road crossing the 20 mile long Marsh Lake and Preserve. We drove into the preserve where the Minimum Maintenance: Travel at Your Own Risk road gave way to a grass track- “hang on kids!�? I yelled as I floored the minivan through some mud spots. It occurs to me that I don’t have my cell phone. The egrets and herons rise up looking like Pterodactyls in a world before time. When I can’t drive any further I get out of the van, climb the rise that’s blocking our way, and see miles of marshy land and lake. Time to turn around. I’m so glad I’m not a pioneer trying to cross this wet land with oxen and wagon. We drive around Marsh Lake on the county highways and make our way to Brad and Kristi’s Coyote Grange to U-pick organic strawberries.

While the kids ran wild, Kristi and I picked berries side by side. She’s a connoisseur of berries like a sommelier is a connoisseur of wine. She brought me different varieties to taste- I liked each one better than the last. Kristi and I have a common bond—we’ve both lost a sweet little lovey— our darling daughters Nora and Milly Rose. Over the berry picking, pausing once in a while to look into each other’s eyes, we talked about our love, loss, trauma, and continuing passages to… what (?). The feelings of grief and comfort passed through our fingers and into these berries. Our combined five children play around us—dripping with strawberry juice as they eat their weight in berries. Alma is hanging close by to hear the retelling of losing her sister (she was only 3.5 when Milly died).

Hungry, we left Coyote Grange and headed to Appleton for lunch. At the café on mainstreet we met a woman without a home-- camping in the city park and visiting her boyfriend in the prison. She’d found a job in town, but couldn’t see how she would get a roof over her head. She’d come in the cafe from the cold drizzle and could only afford a cup of coffee. “I’m not much for eating anyway…�? We bought her some lunch and were back on our way. Halfway home we pulled into the Drywood Church’s gravel parking lot and all took a ½ hour nap. It was gloriously refreshing.

So maybe if you’re lucky enough to get some of this jam (we picked 11 gallons of strawberries so don’t be surprised if you do) you’ll now taste all the loveliness and heartache of a day in and around Big Stone County

For the Beauty of the Earth

Tonight the clouds actually roiled into thunderheads before my eyes. The setting sun lit the clouds to the southeast brilliant pink. This picture doesn't capture how bright pink that cloud became- I had to put down the camera and do chicken chores as Mike ran down to the lake to help his dad. We have 60 broilers (raised for eatin') that have about 10 days of life left. As I moved the portable hutch I could see that the one with the gimpy leg was down-- too weak to move. I brought her over some water- tried to get her to drink. I could see she was dying. If I had the mettle I would have put her down. I don't.

So I petted her back and blessed her. Go in peace little one. Lord let this little guy pass in peace.
She'll be dead by morning.

Sometimes the contrast between City and farm is so great it make my heart ache.

Earlier today I was having what would have been a 3 martini lunch (if not for the drive) with a very cool executive friend of mine. We sat at the window of a most comfortable, elegant restaurant enjoying good food and conversation.

I went down to the barn to care for the layers. As I walked back under roiling pink clouds, in the lush green of a late, wet June there was a song playing in head. As long as I can remember I've often had a tune in my mind. If I actually listen to that tune it usually has some meaning-- a subconcious connection to what I'm thinking, seeing, doing (as profound as the Wham hit "wake me up before you go go" when a kid gets me up 'cuz they have to go pee at night).

The song in my head was For the Beauty of the Earth (Folliot Pierpoint, 1864).

For the beauty of the earth
For the glory of the skies,
For the love which from our birth
Over and around us lies.

Lord of all, to Thee we raise,
This our hymn of grateful praise.

For the beauty of each hour,
Of the day and of the night,
Hill and vale, and tree and flower,
Sun and moon, and stars of light.

(To read the full version click "continue reading")

For the Beauty of the Earth
Words: Folliot Pierpoint (1864)
Music: Conrad Kocher (1838)

For the beauty of the earth
For the glory of the skies,
For the love which from our birth
Over and around us lies.

Lord of all, to Thee we raise,
This our hymn of grateful praise.

For the beauty of each hour,
Of the day and of the night,
Hill and vale, and tree and flower,
Sun and moon, and stars of light.

For the joy of ear and eye,
For the heart and mind’s delight,
For the mystic harmony
Linking sense to sound and sight.

For the joy of human love,
Brother, sister, parent, child,
Friends on earth and friends above,
For all gentle thoughts and mild.

For Thy Church, that evermore
Lifteth holy hands above,
Offering up on every shore
Her pure sacrifice of love.

For the martyrs’ crown of light,
For Thy prophets’ eagle eye,
For Thy bold confessors’ might,
For the lips of infancy.

For Thy virgins’ robes of snow,
For Thy maiden mother mild,
For Thyself, with hearts aglow,
Jesu, Victim undefiled.

For each perfect gift of Thine,
To our race so freely given,
Graces human and divine,
Flowers of earth and buds of Heaven

Lost Menagerie

Last Thursday I was a "distinguished environmental scientist" on a panel at the Form + Content Gallery in Minneapolis- packed to standing room only. The exhibition was by artist Christine Baeumler whose work I've loved, admired, and collected for over 10 years. She soulfully captures the poignant beauty, tinged with grief, of the natural world slipping away under our watch. One of Chris' works is the lovely center piece of our home -- a mosaic painting of 8 extinct fish speicies. It's just about the only thing we yell at the kids not to wreck-- "Quit hanging from the radiator pipes-- You'll hurt the art!!"

But I shook for two days; move by the exhibit, the panel discussion, my own fears.

On the panel, Kris Johnson and I talked about the Minnesota 2050
work/research we've been doing the past 1.5 years. We've been working with groups around the State to create scenarios of the year 2050. Most people, from Grand Marais to Worthington- Crookston to Winona, believe that we are in for a rough ride ahead what with intersection of climate change, peak oil, mass extinctions, economic strains, etc... Hope lies in what emerges from the ashes. Brent Olson, a writer from Big Stone County, articulates this perfectly in the scenario he wrote for Minnesota 2050 (click "continue reading" to read it). I read this scenario for the crowd and they were moved.

We are living in a time of transformation- that's the message I see in Lost Menagerie.

Scenarios – Township Meeting, Big Stone County April 2050

Brent Olson
April 13th, 2007

The small brown horse scampered across the muddy February landscape.

“I’ll call this meeting to order, John said, his body rocking in gentle rhythm. A voice in his ear trilled, “John, I’m in the freakn’ shower. How am I going to keep notes?

“Maria, you may be the secretary, but you haven’t taken notes once in your life. The ‘puter does that. You just wanted to mess with us by presenting the image of you in the shower.

“Maybe, maybe not. Is the agenda approved?

“I’ll approve it. The voice was deeper, with a faint accent. “I do want to add an item about visioning.

“Ahmad, you Turkish twit, I don’t care what kind of crapola went on around the Caspian, but ‘round here visioning is still a hanging offense. An assenting chorus from the other council members filled the air, and they moved on to the financial report.

“We have a current balance of $17,342, there is still nearly 26,000 bushels of corn, two casks of brandy, 73 wheels of Cheddar and I think the prosciutto will be ready to eat by Christmas. In addition, the Omaha community owes us server time and those guys out around Clear Lake have promised three loads of hay and a PlayStation XX in exchange for five days of no-wind electricity. Rochester called and they are still willing to pay a surgical procedure up to a transplant or seven appendectomies, in exchange for our spare bearing for the Vesta 1.79 turbine.

“Why are we still getting the kids video games? Couldn’t we cancel the PlayStation XX for a turbine bearing repair?

“Is that a motion, Fred? If not, shut up – I don’t want my kids hearing that.

“Well, if the rest of you guys don’t want it in a motion, I certainly won’t interfere with the will of the whole.

“Plus, your kids would slit your throat and you know it. Next item.

“Public Defense here. Those folks who made it here all the way from Belize are settled down by the lake. They say they know aquaculture, and if we will feed them for six months, they’ll be turning out crawfish and have pens built for panfish.

“Is there a motion?

“I move we provide them with a Level Three diet, with milk supplements for the children, for the period of eight months, at which point if they’re not pulling their weight we put them on the road again.
“I’ll second that, but keep my wife away from those kids, or she’ll never agree to putting them on the road. All those in favor?

John didn’t think he heard a unanimous vote, but it seemed like more than a hundred, which would be a clear majority so he didn’t even ask for a tally vote.

The grass was greening around him, with only a few grimy piles of snow in the shadows of the wind turbines that were the community’s main cash crop. Angora goats grazed on the last remnants of the leafy spurge which had almost ruined the pastures until the guy in Dickenson had hooked them up with a goat rancher in the Black Hills with excess inventory.

He dismounted and opened and closed a gate leading into the Season 6 rotational pasture. The mixed prairie grasses were still nearly head high, even after a winter’s weather. The ground squished around his boots and he knelt long enough to scoop up a handful of mud, kneading it gently as he stared off to the horizon. Felt good – still a clay loam, but pretty good body and organic matter.

“Any other business to be brought before this board at this time? He paused a moment and then said, “Hearing none, this meeting of the board of Otrey Township, Big Stone County, State of Minnesota is declared adjourned until next month, date to be determined by when we finish planting wheat.

The little green light in the corner of his peripheral vision, indicating a group conversation, shut off and he was alone with the springtime. He slowly rose to his feet, knees and ankles cracking, after a morning on horseback feeling every day of his 83 years. How much longer? he wondered. I’ve paid my dues. I was forty when the first crash came, the Middle East blowing up, the no gas, no electricity, no nothing. He remembered being cold and hungry, everyone scared, and yet holding this place together, cutting loose from the grid and getting all the work done during daylight days or when the wind had the turbines cranking out juice, shivering by a woodburner on the cold January days when the wind didn’t blow. Catching a deep breath when no one was starving and then the harder work of convincing the neighbors to return to society, hooking back up to the grid, taking in refugees when they could, working to build the connections that could get you through the hard times. Washington not much help, not even before the tsunami and not at all afterwards. The dark years took him away, but then his eye focused on what was nearly beneath his boot. He reached down, plucked, and returned to his feet.

He stretched, and led the horse down the hill to the house and his granddaughter headed up to take the horse to the barn. Eighty years of being a farmer made him not aware that he was aware of everything, from the grape vines along every path to the solar collectors running the water treatment plant.

“Hey sweetheart, his wife said as he came through the door, “How was your day?

“Pasture looks good, the damn town meeting is over for another month and I saw a blue heron on the slough. Oh, and I found a crocus for you. He held out a small blue flower on a drooping stem. She patted his chest and stuck the flower in a jelly jar above the sink. “Life is good, darling, life is good.

The Good People of Chokio

I spent 2 hours on main street Chokio (pronounced Cho-ky'-yo) yesterday. I enjoyed a couple diet cokes at John's cafe while Alma had her swimming lessons. Brilliant that they have 2 hour swim lessons for those of us who live remotely. The CHOKIO EQUITY EXCHANGE towers over the town of 400 people. There's something inspiring about sitting under the 20 foot high word "EQUITY." And don't be so sure that when it was painted that they just meant common corporate ownership-- there was probably an undercurrent of equity meaning:

"the concept or idea of fairness or justice in economics, particularly in terms of taxation and welfare economics"

When I rode in the ambulance from the farm to Ortonville last month I was with the county's emergency plan coordinator. Of course we talked about disaster preparedness. He told me that the city of Wilmar is planning that within 72 hours of a disaster their population will swell 2-3 times. That means in case of a pandemic or other scary unpredictable event that many cousins, great nieces, college buddies, etc... will flee the Twin Cities to head to safer ground in Wilmar.

What does this have to do with Chokio?

Well- Chokio's population is swelling 2 to 3 time this weekend. Last night was the Federated Telephone Cooperative Annual meeting. I'm lucky and thankful to be a Federated Coop member. John, owner of the Chokio Cafe, was planning on feeding 750 people for that meeting! It doesn't stop there. Tonight is the 1947-1948 class reunion. Tomorrow, Saturday, is the town celebration and they are expecting 1,000 people to attend. They are serving FREE MEAT-- just bring your own salad for the noon meal, following the parade. On Sunday there's a fund raiser omelet breakfast at the Catholic Church to help pay for a new "Welcome to Chokio" sign.

On Saturday night Todd Sandberg, the Rock 'N Roll Farmer, will DJ the Chokio street dance from 9pm to 1 am.

The crops are under water-- we may as well dance the night away.

Flash Flood in Big Stone County

I scoffed at the idea of a flash flood in Big Stone County-- those sloughs and pothole ponds don't look threatening. Well-- we had a flash flood on the farm today. Hurrying to move cars and tractors as the driveway turned into a water fall. We have well over 100 acres under water.

Mike and I made a desparate attempt to move my bee hives. The pink spots are my hives sitting on the cement bridge that crossed the grass waterway. We moved the hives to higher ground. They were already filling with water and I hope they will survive. We lost a couple chickens.

Part of why this flooding is so dramatic is that our farm is at the bottom of a subwatershed that has been increasingly ditched and drained. The neighbor informed me last week that the county is putting a bigger culvert between our lands-- meaning water will flow even more rapidly onto our land... Looks like I'm finally living some of the watershed work I did in years past.
Whiskey is for drinking.
Water is for fighten' over.
Or else we just give into the landscape and the drainage and make that north 100 a wetland.

Holding Still

On Sunday I was outside before the sunrise. As I stood looking to the pinkening sky to the east, a fog rose from the prairie grass just 100 yards from me-- its genesis right before my eyes. A deer walked into that fog. Birds were singing all around. I remembered a lesson from my high school band teacher, Mr. Paulisch, playing a symphony and telling us to train our ears to hear one instrument at a time. I trained my ears and pulled out different bird songs one at a time. A small, nondescript sparrow landed a few feet from me and startled me with the most lovely calls-- unexpected from such a drab, brown bird.

Three jets made their way east over the prairie-- maybe looking down on "fly over" country. Then the sun rose like a neon pink laser-- a pin point piercing over the praire. The world exploded in color-- the white silo turned pink and casting a 1/2 mile shadow across the field.

Later, at church I was surprised to read in the bulletin that I was the day's lector-- reading scripture about our responsibilities to our children. Muffins and coffee afterwards with the good people of Trinity. I walked with the kids to Bonnie's grocery on main street-- collecting an entourage of little kids along the way and the cell phone number of a local stone mason. After gettting our groceries we went over to the Clinton Depot playground. Our three kids the nucleaus for what became a gathering of 16 kids--a couple of whom went back to Bonnies for ballons. The waterballons were flying-- the ground around the water pump covered with multi-colored scraps of ballons. Lovely kid confetti.
When we came home, I made a batch of homemade mozzarella cheese, picked some basil from the garden, took a loaf of freshly baked crusty bread out of the oven and watched Star Trek TNG with my kids.

It was the best birthday of my entire life.

I had been asked to consider running for the open Minnesota District 20A House of Representative's seat.
I decide not to run.
I would hold still.
At least for now.

What's In Your Larder?

After scaring myself silly reading Doris Lessing's "Memoirs of a Survivor" during the bleak, short days of late December, I promised my mom I would lay off the apocolyptic reading until spring. My friends and family kept me in light reading with a dozen hilarious Janet Evanovich books featuring Stephanie Plum as an inept, but lucky bounty hunter.

Well it's spring. The grass is a delectable green, the wheat is sprouting in the field past the slough. Oil prices dropped to $125 a barrell from $135. The world is fresh and new and full of promise. Now my mind can once again return to thoughts of an uncertain future. So I decided to put away a few days worth of food in case of an emergency. This is what I bought.

I laugh just looking at that pile of empty calories. I bought this food based on one criteria-- calorie density. One can of condensed milk would satisfy the caloric needs of my three kids for an entire day (although I just now wondered if I would be able to make them eat it?-- hmmm didn't take that into account).

In comes Alma-- "mmmm Kool Aid!" So I start explaining to my 8-year old that this is emergency food that we'll keep in the basement. If we need it, we can mix the butter flavored crisco with the sugar to make little energy balls. Alma says "I think I'll bring crackers." After showing her how you'd pop the top on the Spam and some vague words on emergency preparedness so as not to alarm her, she says to me:

"So. I guess we won't be eating healthy."
Maybe I should get some dried, organic cranberries to mix in those energy balls.

20 Years of Food in 2 Days

cherry blossoms --photo credit Dennis Fiser

The title of this blog entry shows an arrogance towards the natural world-- it lacks humility. But I couldn't help it-- I liked the cadence of "20 years in two days".

In the past week we (and I mean we) planted 75 feet of strawberries, 30 feet of asparagus, and 12 fruit trees - apples, pears, plums, apricot, and cherry. God willing (injecting humility) these perennial crops will bear fruit for 20 years. A hard two days work for some ever bearing returns. Now I know the work doesn't end with the planting-- we have weeding, watering, and harvesting. But it feels good to see those strawberries bursting with new leaves already and the bright pink apple blossoms. And if I hadn't left the camera on and drained the batteries you'd be seeing actual photos of the farm.

Here's an interesting aside. The man who delivered and helped plant the trees works with a number of Hutterite and Amish people at the greenhouses. One of the Amish women told him that they up and moved here from Pennsylvania about 8 years ago because God told them to. They woke up one morning and God had instructed them to move to Milbank South Dakota (just on the other side of the Minnesota River from us here at the headwaters). They had never heard of Milbank SD before, but followed God's instructions.

Steve was skeptical.
I was comforted.
Imagine-- I moved to a place where someone heard God whispering for them to go. I'll assume a whisper-- that's how I picture God would talk to us in still, calm moments.

I just read James Howard Kunstlers "World Made by Hand" -- the story of a small town in post-oil America. Kunstler paints a fascinating scenario of a world-- probably set just 10 years out from now-- reduced to walking distance and your food coming from what you can grow or barter for. One of his many points is that without all the constant barrage of tv, radio, video games... some folks can more clearly hear the voice of God. I'll do a book review in the next few days. This is the most hopeful post-collapse book I've read-- and that's my genre you know.

In the mean time--
inch by inch, row by row
someone bless these seeds I sow.

Our Farmer

I asked Todd if I could take a picture of him for my blog and he said he wondered why he hadn't been on it yet. This is Todd-- he's a stand up guy-- and he's our farmer. Todd has been farming this land for about 5 years-- some good some bad-- and he'll be farming most of it again this year. Todd is also known around here as the Rock and Roll Farmer. He dj's at all the good events and has a depth and breadth of the music scene. He's made us a few discs of his musical finds and selections. We're so glad to be friends with and have a farmer like Todd for so many reasons.

The kids love him. Todd's had his share of back troubles-- including surgery last winter. So every night the boys say their bedtime prayers and race to see who can say first "God bless Todd's owey back!" or "God bless Todd's better back." It's gotten quite competitive to see who can bless Todd first and in fact, it's been ending in tears and punches being thrown the last few weeks. I'm sorry-- but I can't help laughing at them pounding each other over who gets to bless Todd. He's that special.

Scared of the Dark

On my way to the Cities I ritualistically stop after turning out of my driveway (usually around 3:30 - 4am), turn off the lights, and look at my farm on the prairie. I see the halo of the yardlight, the silhoutte of the farm house.

This morning there was no trace of my farm. It completely disappeared.

Agralite, our electric coop, owns and maintains the yard light on the condition it comes on automatically dusk to dawn-- there's no switch. I'd been stomping around because "what's the use of living on a farm way in the country if you can't see the stars for the yardlight." So we bought the yard light from Agralite ($50) and put a switch on the light pole which is about 100 feet from the house. It is switched off. It's nice to step outside in the early morning dark and see the stars. This morning, however, I left the house at 3:30 am and couldn't find my car 20 feet from the house.

When I stopped at the end of the driveway and turned off my car lights it was downright scary. Pitch black with no reference point of home-- no yellow glow from the farm yard-- no silhoutte of a house. I rolled down the windows thinking I could see better. Nothing but complete and still darkness. I rolled up my window and drove the 2.5 miles to the blacktop road.

That's when I realized that I didn't just put out the light for my family-- but I put out the light on another farmstead in Big Stone County. I used to see the light of our farm from that blacktop road. Now I saw an even larger expanse of black prairie-- depopulated--dark. A couple of our neighbors put out their farmlights lately (saving $10-$15 in electric per month). A couple months ago I actually missed the turn to the farm because the farm on the corner turned out their light which was my landmark at night.

Do you remember-- does anyone remember-- the nightime rural Minnesota landscape 30 years ago? As a child, sitting in the back of my mom and dad's Delta '88 cruisin' between Hayfield and Dodge Center, WCCO on the radio, driving home from grandma's -- my head against the glass looking at the series of barns with their lights on at 6 pm. All of them milking cows.

It's darker now on the prairie. This morning I saw one barn with lights on in 200 miles of driving -- one red barn with what I'll guess is one old farmer who just loves (or doesn't know how to stop) dairying. So I've turned the light off on my farm. One less light on the prairie.

Terroir-- the Taste of Place

Photo credit: Kelley Reber
Idea credit: Maggi Adamek

The buds burst yesterday. The first hints of green trees dotted around. I had this wonderful moment sitting on a 5-gallon bucket on the porch putting beeswax foundations into the frames for my beehives. Mike and Lake walked down the lawn and Jens ran to catch up- his determined little arms pumping in the air. They walked across the makeshift bridge over the intermittent stream that is full of spring water-- laughing, playing, on their way to the chickens.

It's planting time and our garden is going in-- we're (which means Mike) planting a big variety including brussel sprouts, parsnips (to Mike's objection), 5 kinds of edible dry beans (black turtles to great northerns), herbs, 3 varieties of potatoes, watermelon... Leona is gathering herbs for a tea garden. The bees will be arriving here in hours. I'm gaining an intimate sense of place-- the moisture in the soil, the way it works, the temperature of the soil (someone actually ASKED me the soil temp yesterday and I could say "it's only about 42 degrees"). This is the part of being a soil scientist that I hadn't experienced in class or text books. Good classes too. When I took Soil Morphology from Terry Cooper a whole new world opened up to me-- the beauty and awe of a soil profile.

One of the senses of place is taste. The French call it Terroir-- a taste of a place. This is the subtle taste that comes from a place-- why different regions in France have wines that taste differently because of the soil, the slant of the sunlight, the microclimate. Perhaps why a Colorado peach is so peculiarly good. I've been told that there is no place on earth where the vegetables taste as good as those grown in the Red River Valley-- and that maybe they are especially nutritious.

We are learning the taste of this place. Our chickens, eggs, the water. When we moved here I kept using the Britta water filter pitcher that my mother in law left us. Now we drink straight from the tap (and yes the waters been tested and is good). The water has a distinct flavor-- even strong sometimes of iron. But not consistently. I think I detect the taste of that water in the chicken meat-- really.

Over the years we Americans have lost that sense of terroir --a taste of place-- as the food industry succeeded in delivering the same consistent taste bite after bite, visit after visit. I think that people have actually become afraid of tasting something different—reticent to have variation and distinction. So now our family will find out the taste of Big Stone County—of a clay loam soil in the prairie pothole region. The taste of the water, the fruits of the soil, the pollen and nectar of the crops and prairie, the sunlight, and the moonlight.

Wow! That new espresso from the Valasquez family has really fueled my writing. New people bring new ideas into ones life. I'm pleased to work with Maggi Adamek who gave me the name to the taste of place- terroir.

I had sung about it before-- Greg Brown's song "Canned Goods." "She's got magic in her... she put the sun and the rain in with the beans..."

Well let the wild winter wind bellow and blow
I'm as warm as a July tomato

There's peaches on the shelf, potatoes in the bin
Supper ready, everybody come on in
Taste a little of the summer
Taste a little of the summer
Taste a little of the summer
Grandma put it all in jars

Well there's a root cellar, fruit cellar down below
Watch your head now, and down we go

Well maybe you are weary and you don't give a damn
I bet you never tasted her blackberry jam

Oh she got magic in her, you know what I mean
She puts the sun and rain in with her beans

What with the snow and the economy and everything
I think I'll just stay down here and eat until spring

When I go down to see Grandma, I gain a lot a weight
With her dear hands she gives me plate after plate
She cans the pickles, sweet and dill
And the songs of the whip-or-will and the morning dew and the evening moon
I really gotta go down and see her soon
Cause the canned goods that I buy at the store
Ain't got the summer in em anymore
You bet Grandma as sure as you're born I'll take some more potatoes and
a thunder storm