Category Archives: Memories

Pruning the Woods

Summer                                                              First Harvest Moon

Felled an oak today, about 8 inches thick.  It was too close to other oaks, competing with them.  As I build up our firewood supply, I also think about pruning the forest, trying to put into practice advice given to me years ago by a member of the DNR’s forestry team.  It has taken about 18 years to get started; I don’t like to rush into things.

Every time I use a chainsaw it takes me back to the not-so Peaceable Kingdom.  That was my first and most all-in back to the land moment.  I gave up urban life, a good job and seminary to move onto the 80 acre farm Judy and I bought.  You know the story, she leaves for good shortly after I get there.

That left with me a woodburning stove for heating and one for cooking, so I had to have firewood.  On our 80 there was a small forest, larger than the one out here with plenty of firewood ready for harvest.  I’d put my Jonsered in the bed of my green International Harvester pick-up, drive into the woods, cut down a tree or two, cut them up, toss them in  the truck, then head back to the house.

I stacked the wood there, unless it was dry already.  If it was dry, I’d start splitting it for use right away.  The stuff that wasn’t dry waited until deep winter when the cold would do some of the work.

The wood cutting and using the wood stoves were highlights of that time, a modest form of self-sufficiency, off the grid as far as fuel oil went.

The muscle memory lingers and pops into play every time I yank the starter cord.  Good memories.

Out There, Man

Summer                                                New (First Harvest) Moon

66 years ago today news began to leak out about an incident at Roswell, New Mexico.  Roswell Army Air Field (RAAF).  The UFO incident and later reporting of more and more sightings has never fully abated.  Classed with conspiracy theorists and aluminum foil hat guys for most of that time, there has nonetheless been widespread public interest as signified by the number of Hollywood movies on the theme:  Close Encounters, E.T. and many, many others.

Even Carl Jung wrote a small book on the UFO phenomenon, characterizing it as a contemporary search for the numinous, a spiritual yearning at its heart.

It struck me today because, well, I’m 66.  That means the UFO story and I share a common chronology.  It even got intertwined when in 1957, at the age of 10, my friend Mike Hines (mentioned earlier in regard to explosions) looked up in the sky one clear August evening, we were standing in my backyard on Monroe Street, and saw three cigar shaped objects in the sky.  Sure, cigar shaped objects were popular then, exactly the same of passenger planes, still pretty uncommon at the time.  But here’s what got Mike and I reported in state and national newspapers:  we saw these cigar shaped objects go behind the moon.  And come out the other side!  And yes, in retrospect, I can see it still.  The blue dark sky, the full moon, the objects slowly moving toward the moon, then disappearing, only to reappear a bit later.

Here’s something else.  My life span also covers the golden age of space travel, when men dared for the first time to fly in rockets out of the atmosphere, when they orbited the earth and eventually both went to the moon and landed on it.  That time is in the past now with space travel reduced to expensive rocket-powered trucks delivering and retrieving guests from an international space hotel.

 

 

Home Again?

Summer                                                         New (First Harvest) Moon

Brother Mark has been traveling the nostalgia trail of late.  He landed in Bloomington, Indiana last week, where both he and Mary went to college.  Now he’s in Indianapolis and I imagine his next stop is Alexandria, not far from Naptown, as Hoosiers refer to Indy. He visited Tom Wolfe’s grave outside Asheville, North Carolina a couple of weeks ago and You Can’t Go Home Again might be on his mind.

It is on mine every time I return to Indiana.  Alexandria was our home during our growing up years and it has that charged, magical valence that only the spot where childhood came alive can have.  Yet the heart has its own rules, its own inclinations and prejudices and for me Alexandria simply does not mean home for me as an adult.

I’m looking forward to the conversation with the Woollies about home.  At mine.

 

The Beginning of the End of Summer

Summer                                                             Solstice Moon

July 4th is the midpoint of summer for me.  It’s not in terms of the calendar or meteorology, but in my visceral sense of times ongoingness, the one that tells me when I am, I now am between the 4th and Labor Day.  I suppose that harkens back to school days when there would be the 4th of July parade, then Labor Day marked the beginning of school.  What remains is a vestigial feeling that the next big thing to happen is the ringing of school bells.

(that’s me, second from the left on the first row)

The school bell has long ago faded and even the summer pace of work is gone, for me now almost 25 years.  Yet that sense that summer has reached its climax and now speeds its way toward the denouement still sends its signals.  The garden does pick up speed now with plants maturing, more and more vegetables ripening, fruit, too.  The arc of the garden though does not know Labor Day, does not have a building and a bell in its lexicon.  It knows the growing season, the gradual warming, then cooling of the daytime and nighttime temperatures.

With Latin on hold I’ve begun to work outside a bit more regularly since I no longer feel as crunched for time in the mornings.  That means I can participate more fully in the garden’s life.  Many garden plants, especially vegetables, run through their entire life cycle during the growing season, going from seed to stalk to leaves to fruit, then senescence.  The school year that I inherited was one sensitive to this rhythm.  It allowed the kids to come home from school during the months their labor was crucial on the farm, during the height of the growing season.  The need for that passed long ago as the number of family farms has steadily declined.

Yet like my inner sense of time the school system continues on, its memory of the days of the family farm institutionally intact.

 

Happy Independence Day, World!

Summer                                                                Solstice Moon

 

It is now the spring, then summer, then winter of our discontents.  We have had the Arab spring, now the vinegar rebellion in Brazil, the dislocation of Egypt’s president, widespread disruption in Istanbul.  There are those who say China’s population boils just below the eruption point.  We had the tea party rebellions here as well as the Occupy movement.

I’m not smart enough to know if these protests have some deep underlying connection, one feeding them in a Geist’s subtle movement, but I have my own experience of rebellion and protest.  People rebel for noble reasons, pacifists against war, for self-interested reasons, being draft eligible during a war, for ideological reasons, to support the masses, for the thrill of it, for the fun, for the sex, for the party, for the rock and roll.  And for various combinations of these reasons.

And, I think, increasingly because they can organize with greater ease.  When the main means of communication were leaflets handed out or stapled to telephone poles, phone calls from landlines, or mass meetings, getting folks to one place for an event had more steps, entailed more volunteers, demanded more discipline.  Now an e-mail can go out, a twitter feed, a facebook posting and all those connected can convene.  If they do, and I’m sure they do, use the old organizers trick of having each person contacted invite two more, then all you need is the grain of wheat on one corner of a chess board to see how vast crowds can become.  Fast.

It may be, just might be, that there is something in the water these days that says we’ve had enough.  Of authoritarianism.  Of despotism.  Of ham handed religious pronouncements substituting for policy.  Of the rich gathering in more and more while barricading themselves in enclaves of glass and steel.  Of the rich putting cordons around privilege and assets.  It’s bound to get noticed at some point, isn’t it?

Whatever it is, I find it hopeful.  When people finally decide to act, politicians will learn the truth that all governments get their power from the consent of the governed.  Some choose to give away their power because of fear or religious belief or ideological commitment, but push people far enough and those bandaids over the cancer of elitism and oligarchy will get ripped off.

That’s not to say that protest and rebellion are without their costs.  It is no accident that the conservatives among us fight to ensure order against frivolous assault.  The break down of public order is a dangerous moment, as much for the protester as for the protested against.  And revolutions don’t have a wonderful track record of ushering in utopia.  Far from it.  But I consider these actions against the leaden weight of tradition and scorn. Whether in a particular instance they achieve the goals they seek may not be so important as demonstrating again, and again, and if necessary yet again, that no government can ignore its people, allow the unchecked aggregation of wealth and influence, without peril.

This is, I suppose, why that poster boy of the Tea Party crowd, Thomas Jefferson, wrote the following words, which we celebrate tomorrow:

“Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed, –That whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new Government, laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their Safety and Happiness. Prudence, indeed, will dictate that Governments long established should not be changed for light and transient causes; and accordingly all experience hath shewn, that mankind are more disposed to suffer, while evils are sufferable, than to right themselves by abolishing the forms to which they are accustomed. But when a long train of abuses and usurpations, pursuing invariably the same Object evinces a design to reduce them under absolute Despotism, it is their right, it is their duty, to throw off such Government, and to provide new Guards for their future security.”

Travel Memories

Summer                                                                                      Solstice Moon

Funny how events that happen during a visit, often outside the particular place visited, shape memories.  Last night Jon, Jen, Ruth and Gabe were in Minneapolis when a riptide of lightning pulled heavy rain in its tow.  Jon said, “I knew if I could get to Columbia Heights, we’d be ok.”  They saw manhole covers burst up and forded one high spot, but managed to get back to our merely soggy home about 9:30 pm.

On a visit to Denver a year ago right now, James Holmes shot up a theater full of late night movie goers watching Batman:  The Dark Knight Rises.  This was in Aurora, not far from where my hotel and Jon and Jen’s home.  They teach in the Aurora school district, so the event hit them hard.

Back in 1968 I tried, briefly, to move to New York City.  Stymied by uncertain draft status I couldn’t find work.  But, I was there for Bobby Kennedy’s funeral held at St. Patrick’s Cathedral.  Another trip a year earlier found me in Toronto during the time of what would become a historic John Cage concert, which I accidentally attended.

 

 

Destination Twin Cities

Beltane                                                                               Solstice Moon

 

Butch Thompson is an elegant guy who can really get down.  “Two Minnesota artists — celebrated choreographer Sarah LaRose-Holland and jazz pianist Butch Thompson — have collaborated to present “Destination Twin Cities,” an impressionistic, time-traveling exploration of neighborhoods, landmarks, people and places that define urban life in Minnesota. Who were we, and who are we today?”

Butch played piano and one very soulful clarinet piece and Sarah LaRose-Holland’s dance troupe, Kinetic Evolutions, gave movement to a nostalgic look back at many Twin Cities’ notable places from the Lexington Restaurant to the Hennepin Avenue Strip.  The latter roughly located where Block E is now.  It was a place full of dives that provided steady work for many Minnesota jazz musicians.

Slides of Twin Cities past:  the Wabasha Caves, street cars, winter scenes in neighborhoods, the Stone Arch Bridge, the West Bank accompanied the music and dance projected on the brick wall of the former Guthrie Lab space, 700 N. 1st Street.

Butch’s music was sad, cheery, bouncy, wistful and cool.  The choreography had some fine moments, especially two two person sets, one ironic and intentionally so I imagine, paired a fine African-American dancer, Kasono Mawanza, with a superb Chinese dancer, Jenny Sung, moving through an evening at the haunt of the white power elite, the Lexington while the second featured a mother and daughter walking on Selby Avenue.  The daughter was 5 years old, maybe 6 and kept right up with the adult who could have been her real mother.  The Lexington piece was elegant and smooth, all careful sinuousity while the Selby Avenue work had improvisation and the kind of charm only a young performer can bring to the stage.

 

 

Archaeology of the Heart

Beltane                                                                         Solstice Moon

While watching a NOVA program on dogs, a reference was made to archaeology.  I studied archaeology and the broader discipline of anthropology seriously in college.  Seriously enough that I applied for doctoral work in theoretical anthropology.  Why I didn’t follow that up is a story for another time, but archaeology resonates for me and the mention of it in this context triggered a memory only recently interpreted.

Over the course of my life when confronted with the odd plumbing job or carpentry task, you know, the men things, I would fob them off with the stock phrase, “Oh, I learned everything my Dad knew about these things.  Nothing.”  And, as far I know, that’s a true statement in both instances.  I’m still not able in those areas though I admit I’ve never tried too hard to learn.

Kate and I work outside together a lot, though she works in one area and I work in another.  I found myself having a rising sense of impatience, irritation about her work.  Those who know me well would recognize this mood in me.  I’m not proud of it, but it does surface from time to time.  This time I knew my mood simply had no basis in reality.

Kate works hard.  She works well.  And she was doing both of those, as I know she always does, so this mood was about me, not her.  Suddenly buckets of water sloshing in the wee hours of the morning came to mind.  Uh, oh.  When we moved to our home at 419 N. Canal, it was the first, and last, home my father and mother owned.  We moved there in 1959 and my dad had his stroke there in the  1990’s and died after having moved to a nursing home from there.

In my years there, from 1959 to 1965, I don’t recall a service person ever coming to our house to repair anything.  Likewise, I don’t recall anything ever getting repaired.  Must of have happened, but I don’t recall it.  The only such incident I do recall was a recurring one in which our basement, which housed our furnace and little else, would flood.  When that happened, Dad would get me up and together we would bail out the basement, one bucket at a time.

Roused from sleep, cold and wet, these were not my favorite memories.  I do remember that as we worked, Dad would become silent, sullen.  In fact, I remember him being irritated and impatient with my willingness to do this chore.  Aha.  My memory of teamwork seems to be tied to those nights and I seem to have selected my father’s attitudes to carry on, carrying his water into my own life.  As sons often do.

Rethinking this time also made me realize a second thing.  Why didn’t Dad try to solve the problem rather than resort to such a makeshift solution every time?  I don’t know the answer.  It might have been money.  It might have been pride.  It might have been that these matters simply didn’t show up as problems to solve, but rather came up as problems to ameliorate.  Whatever the reason, I learned to be incurious about solving problems around the house.  Doesn’t matter.  Maybe it’ll go away or fix itself.

Now, I have owned homes since 1969, 7 altogether, one in Appleton, Wisconsin, one in Minneapolis, one outside Nevis, Minnesota, 3 in St. Paul and 1 here in Andover.  Over that time I’ve learned some very minor skills in home repair and one big one.  The big one?  Hire somebody.  Works most of the time.  As far as I can tell, solving day to day problems in the house is one of the few things I’m incurious about.  Fortunately Kate is better than I am and together we can call anybody.

The archaeology of our own thoughts and feelings is the most rudimentary and personal dig we will ever engage.  And that, I’m plenty curious about.

 

Memories

Beltane                                                                     New (Solstice) Moon

Over the last couple of weeks I’ve had interactions with folks from Alexandria, Indiana resulting from a reader posting a blog entry, a 50’s boyhood, to an Alexandria Facebook site.  It’s been interesting.  The most interesting interaction has come from an old classmate who found my memories romanticized.  You can see her comment under Who.

(1st)

I wrote her and in doing so discovered that she was a girl (then) who had done very well in our class, but didn’t (apparently) get the recognition she felt she deserved.  I had to reflect that could have been true.  Sexism (though not named) was alive and well back then and I’m sure it effected teacher’s perceptions and other students opinions.  It may have helped me to some awards and recognition.  Impossible to parse out now at this remove, but I’d never thought of it until she wrote.

Having said that I want to add that happy memories are not necessarily romanticized.  That’s a word used by an outside observer.  As resident in those memories, they were happy.  Being a kid among kids is a great way to spend time when you’re young.  Sure, we had our hassles, too.  Our arguments and fights.  I remember one incident where a next door neighbor pulled my pants down in front of my friends.  This was the nuclear option at the time.  I thought life was over and I could never face anybody again. Until the next day of course.

(3rd)

Once my life moved away from Monroe Street it began to take on a more serious, turning toward adult tone.  We had a house on Canal Street, one  we owned, rather than rented.  In junior high I remember a fight with Rodney Frost, a bad one by the standards of the day. (low)  Rodney died several years ago and my first memory when I saw his obituary was of that 6th grade fight near the junior high school.

Girls remained a mystery for me well into college, so I had the normal ration of pre-teen and teen angst over dating, sex and self worth.  Those were not happy memories.  My father and I began to part ways emotionally during junior high, a fact I credited only much later to a growing unease he had with my intellectual maturing.  When this distance had reached its maximum, around my senior year of high school, my mother had a stroke and died seven days later.

(4th)

Those months and the years following them were more than unhappy times.  They were a constant struggle for self-worth capsized often by grief and the estrangement I had with my remaining parent.  This was just the way it was.  Do I wish it could have been different?  Of course.  Do I know it won’t be.  Yes, I do.

That period and its attendant miseries are now in my past, but they are in my past and they show up whenever I visit that period or that place, Alexandria.

(third phase)

Magnetic or Sticky?

Beltane                                                                     Early Growth Moon

Sister Mary discovered an interesting analysis by the Pew Trust which measured states as magnetic and sticky.  Essentially magnetic meant the capacity, demonstrated by census data, to attract newcomers while sticky measured the capacity or lack of it to retain those born in the state.  States received rankings on both measures and then were grouped into categories such as high magnet/low sticky, low magnet/low sticky and so on.

Minnesota and Indiana are in the same group, along with surprisingly, California.  That is, neither state attracts all that many new folks, but those born there tend to stay.

I’m not sure why folks remain in Indiana, except for inertia, but I’m sure folks stay in Minnesota because it offers a distinctive culture, one rooted in an outdoor life-style coupled with progressive politics and a highly developed arts and performing arts scene in the Twin Cities.  All this set in a spot tucked up next to Canada with the boreal forest extending almost to the northern exurb of the Twin Cities where Kate and I live, a forest filled with lakes and wilderness bounded on its eastern edge by the largest fresh water lake in the world, Lake Superior.  (Lake Baikal has more depth and therefore more water, but its surface area is somewhat smaller than the shallower Superior.)

Having said that I moved here by accident when I came for seminary in 1970 and remained by choice.   Minnesota is a low magnet state for several reasons, the chief one being climate.  We have, or had, severe winters coupled with short but intense summers.  Another factor working against Minnesota is its location.  It’s not on the way to anywhere in the US.  You have to come here on purpose, either for school or outdoor recreation or a work related move.  The Upper Midwest, of which Minnesota is a part with Wisconsin and Michigan all share that sense of isolation from the more southerly tiers of states.  And you’ll notice they are in the same column.

Indiana does not attract folks, especially now, I imagine, due to poor job prospects.  The closing of industrial manufacturing facilities put Indiana solidly in the rust belt.  It does not have the natural amenities of the hills and mountains of Tennessee, Kentucky, Arkansas, nor does it have any other particularly noteworthy natural features.  It does have a strong blue collar culture focused on basketball, cars, racing and the remnants of unionism which might help explain why folks stay.

The whole article on the Pew website is worth reading.  They do very interesting work on several topics.