September 21, 2015
Evening Wear is Evolving

I was reading something interesting the other day.  I do that a lot and sometimes I forget just where I have acquired some sort of tidbit because I read so many different things.  But this particular article's topic was ladies' sleepwear.  Naturally I perked up when I started in to read.  You see, I like my sleepwear and I own a wide and varied collection of t.

The writer wasn't aiming her words at folks such as me in her essay however.  Instead she was discussing those who, for some reason, gravitate to wearing their husband's  ratty, oversized t-shirts, or their teenage kid's discarded and outgrown clothing, or even their own past-prime nightwear.  But what caught my eye and astounded me was the mention of those who prefer to sleep in their street clothes. That's right, they just move from day to night wearing the very same attire that they slipped into in the morning hours.  The essayist went on to describe the many comfy skirts and pant that she gravitates to merely for the ease of falling into bed at the end of a long day with no need for changing into sleepwear.  

To each their own I guess.  

I can safely say that I don't think I have ever intentionally done such a thing.  After all, 8 daylight hours is more than enough time to wear ones clothes before shedding them for a favorite sleeping gown or comfy pajamas.  Is this becoming an alarming trend, I asked myself as I read feverishly on down the page of the magazine.Should I be concerned? Will women's lingerie go the way of dinosaurs and Edsels? And should I be purchasing some soft jersey skirts with elastic banded waists?

There was a trend several years back where folks would wear puffy lounge pants for daily attire.  Zubaz were popular with their wild animal prints and other geometric configurations.  These pants would easily go from boardroom to bedroom, that's for sure.  But who wants to walk around all day long in their jammies? I never understood that trend.

I guess I come by the love of pretty nightwear naturally.  My  mother always had a beautiful gown and matching robe to wear to bed.  You see, my father saw that most every special occasion - birthday, anniversary and Christmas - was marked with a new negligee for my mother.  The ladies at the local department store knew just what he was after when they saw him walk in the door. I guess his reputation preceded him.  

One memorial Valentine's Day, dad gifted mom the most beautiful fiery red lacy, frilly nightgown and matching robe.  Actually it was rather radical move for a married man with 4 children to bestow something of that caliber on one's wife.  But he did.  And as she was holding it up, lovingly admiring it, our little brother piped up in a little voice, "Mommy, is that what you're going to be wearing when I wake you up in the middle of the night for a glass of water?!"  Yes it was indeed.

The story doesn't end there.  Dad continued to favor beautiful women's lingerie for our mother through the years even after we all grew up and left their home.  One day, while shopping in their local department store together, Dad was dutifully waiting on mom as she tried something or other on in the dressing room.  As he strolled between the display racks, tightly jammed into the aisles, he managed to accidentally pick up a piece of "wandering lingerie" along the way.  The loop of his belt snagged the plastic hanger of an itty bitty, teensy weensy size 10 red bikini sleepwear set and it adhered itself lovingly to his side.

Mom, who was used to these things happening on a regular basis, looked the other way and feigned innocence. Caught red handed, Dad knew he must return that garment to its proper rack, but given the vast array of filmy negligees on display in the store, he was at a loss which way to turn.  Pleading for assistance from his better half, just brought the reply,"Well don't you remember where you picked it up?"

"To tell the truth," dad admitted, "by that time I didn't even recall which state I was in let alone which rack of filmy garments was minus one of its filmiest numbers."  There are times when it's just better to cut bait and run.  And that's just what he did. 

But not before, I'm pretty certain, he had fully scoped out the women's lingerie department in search of mom's next Mother's Day gift. I can tell you one thing for certain, that though it wasn't a size 10 itty bitt, teensy weensy red bikini sleepwear set, it most likely was something every bit as pretty as that.  

My motto is this:  there are so very many pretty pieces of nightwear to choose, and so few hours in which to wear them.  Now why would you ever want to sleep in your clothes? Sadly, I guess I'll never know the answer to that question. 

September 14, 2015
Anticipation Makes for Life's Thrills

My car had a rather important milestone this weekend. I guess you could say that I was involved in that turning point as well.  After all, we two have been through a whole lot of living these past few years, and a happening like this is just too important not to take notice.

I had been anticipating with mixed emotions, that moment.  Trepidation, of course, much like when you greet yet one more birthday, ticking off yet another year of life's experience.  Pride, that we've both endured countless obstacles and survived, earning the right to brag a bit.  Sorrow, for the loss of youth that is oh so fleeting yet at the same time ignorant and inexperienced.

It was a moment in time, indeed.  Much like the time spent waiting for that special day to arrive.  Like counting the hours until Christmas or the wee hours New Year's eve.  It's the anticipation that means so much after all.  As I drove down the road that night, I was aware of the approaching moment yet somehow let my mind wander....almost past that important point - the apex - the main event.  I happened to glance down at the dash board and it read 199,998.  

It was then that I realized that fast approaching was a moment that would never again be.  Like the first fledgling steps of your child, or his first utterance of understandable communication, ("Da-daaaa"), or the date 11-12-13.  There's just no mistaking the fact that it's a significant point in time. And you can never get that time back again.  Ever.

By the time that I noticed the odometer reading, I figured I better pull over and think about things a bit.  Contemplate the meaning of it all in that few seconds that I had left.  And so I did.  But, like anything worth waiting for, it seemed like the fractions of the miles it would take to inch that number into a new era took forever.  But then awaiting the stroke the new year can seem to take forever too.  

Of course I had to record that moment in time on my camera.  Like anything else, just like those first beautiful smiles of your baby, I felt the obligation.  And so I sat on the side of the road snapping photographs of my odometer reading just as it inched into a new era.  It reminded me a bit of the frenzied welcoming of the year 2,000.  We all faced that moment with a sense of fear and anticipation. What was to come, how odd it would be to pronounce the new millennium's name, and would the sky still be hanging above when we awoke on January 1 of that new year? 

We survived that time.  And I'm happy to report that (so far) my car is still running fine even at its advanced age.  I have much respect for her and we will continue to take good care of one another.  After all, there's a whole lot of miles of road between the two of us.  And plenty of milestones as well.

September 7, 2015
Play Could be Dangerous Work Sometimes

The other day while traversing the country side I noticed, tucked behind an old abandoned school building, a rusty child's metal jungle gym.  I couldn't help but imagine all those little tots once upon a time climbing up and clamoring on and hanging from..........and falling off of that jungle gym on that school  playground.  I could almost hear the thud and the cries of pain and fear that followed that fall as I was driving past.

Equipment like that has in recent years been condemned to the scrap metal piles of merely abandoned in a quiet school yard in favor of much better, newly improved, kid-safe plastic playground attractions.

And most likely for good reason.  Those playgrounds of old did boast some rather scary, treacherous features. But they were also lots of fun to us kids.

What of those metal slides that towered so high overhead.  Once one finally garnered the courage to tackle one of those, you found there were tiny little slippery pegs to climb to the top. Once (if) you made it that far without missing a rung and backsliding, the ride downward could be fraught with danger such as toppling over the thin edge of ripping your shorts or worse, you skin, to shreds on the sharp metal along the route.

Yes, there were countless perils on the playground when we were kids.  Take the ever-popular tether ball game.  It sported a pole and a ball that was attached to a rope.  The object of this delightful game was to be the first to swack that ball repeatedly until the rope was completely would around the pole.

I recall one time being in the wrong place at the right time when the ball had been thwacked by the strongest boy in the sixth grade.  It hit me right in the back of the head.  (Lesson:  never turn your back on a tether ball).  Such a dangerous game! Are they still allowed on school playgrounds?

Merry-go-rounds.  Whoever dubbed them this sure had the wrong idea.  I found nothing jolly or even close to frivolous about these.  Usually a spin on the merry-go-round found me with an iron grip on the handle cowering on the floor.  I was a nervous, dizzy wreck when it finally came to a speed slowly enough to allow me to jump off and stagger away.  

I will admit that I love the swing sets.  I loved to swing really high and in fact haven't outgrown that delight. Somehow I always felt like I could fly when I rode the swing set and though there were usually butterflies involved in the tummy, it was still quite the thrill. I hope they still let kids swing on swing sets.

Playground equipment has vastly evolved over the  years.  And why is that?  Do we know now more that they did way back then when those indestructible pieces of equipment were installed in the parks and school playgrounds? Who was responsible for banning them and condemning them to desertion and oxidization?

The other day I watched two young tow-haired sisters enjoying one of those new-fangled play gyms in a city park. The older girl, probably 7 or 8 years in age, traversed the entirety of the set-up with ease, scooching across the monkey bars, shimmying down the pole, and inching up the climbing wall with ease.

Close behind her was little sister, a few years younger, who clearly displayed some trepidation yet determination in following her sister's lead. As I watched, I was delighted to see big sis encouraging and assisting her sibling in completing the tasks.  It warmed my heart. It also was a relief to me that neither girl fell off or was maimed in their play.  

I guess the new playground equipment can't be all that bad.  Even though it IS made of plastic. You have to wonder where it will end up some day when it's deemed inappropriate for play.

August 31, 2015
Handwriting Isn't What it Used to Be

The other day I decided to set pen to paper and write my collegiate son a note.  Recalling how exciting it was to receive anything but a credit card application or sales flier in the mailbox when one is firs away from home, I figured it might be a nice gesture.

Then I remembered a sad fact that halted me like an empty inkwell:  my kids cannot decipher my handwriting.  Never could and never will.

I don't know why this is so but it just is.  There are times when even I can't read what I've scribbled on the page. Perhaps it is the fact that in the third grade my teacher, Miss Strom, once gave ma an "unsatisfactory" grade in handwriting.  That was a devastating moment for me and how I recovered I am not quite certain.  I will say that is the one and only "U" I have ever received on a report card. 

Back then, my mom used to tell of the school days when the "Palmer Method of Handwriting" was taught to school kids.  Being the visual, artistic person that I am, I think I would have taken to that method rather readily. Handwriting exercises were performed daily in an effort to promote the precise, rightly-tilted letters and nicely formed characters.  Mom told us that those exercises consisted of drawing connected circles across one's tablet.  (She does admit that she wasn't always the best at those and used to go back and fill in some of her o's along the way).  

At any rate, the Palmer method of penmanship produced some pretty perfected handwriting in its day. One could even boast that it did so in an artistic fashion,

When we were students in elementary school the classrooms were lined with cards depicting the proper formation of cursive letters, and great care was taken to mimic the lovely script.  By the third grade, cursive writing was required of us with little exception to that rule.  

Yet a few years later, many students developed their own style of handwriting.  There were those whose defiance of the curriculum, leaned their letters far to the left.  Some wrote in a straight up style, forgoing the gentle, rightward lean.  And then there was me.

I think I tried just about every style there was yet I just didn't seem to be able to develop my own unique style.  I guess that "unsatisfactory" grade could have had something to do with my handwriting self esteem. But I actually blame it on heredity.  My dad's handwriting could send a chill to you if you had to actually understand what he had written.  My mom admits to breaking out in a cold sweat whenever she was given the task of transcribing anything that dad had written.

As a reporter, poor hand writing can be a challenge, a stumbling block so to speak.  It's one thing to  have the ability to scribble quickly a few words heard.  but it's completely another to understand what  you've written.  These days I can blame the injury to my right hand as a factor in my shoddy handwriting.  Try as I may it seems I am unable to avoid the curse of the "sloppy cursive writer", so I guess I had better stick to printing, or better yet typing my letter to my son these days.  

But I may just pen a special letter to Dad and see if he can translate what I've written. I'll bet he will have no trouble whatsoever.

August 24, 2015
Comfort Food Makes for Warm Memories

Looking back you'll have to agree that Slayton has had its share of fine eateries through the years. Some have reputations that far succeed the life of the establishment, still others have long been forgotten.  If you listen carefully, you may even be able to hear the clank of dishes, or detect the unmistakable greasy aroma of a well seasoned griddle, and wonder where the years have gone.

One of my favorites pots to frequent when I worked in the downtown area during the 80s was the Mint Cafe.  Located within the heart of the town's Broadway Avenue, the Mint was owned by Al and Arlys Husfeldt who worked loving and laboriously in their "mom and pop" diner.  One thing is for sure, Al knew how to cook and Arlys knew the meaning of great service.Their little diner was always bustling and filled with lunch crowds.

Closing my eyes I can still see Al behind the counter, tucked into the tiny kitchen, while Arlys cheerfully waited tables, visiting with each of the cafe's customers along the way.  I can tell you that my favorite thing on their menu there was a hamburger, grilled to perfection in that old fashioned manner not found all that often today.Just sitting in the Mint brought to mind the sort of diner in which Sheriff Andy Taylor might have dined with his sidekick Barney Fife.  

After the lunch rush had subsided and the coffee hour edged its way in, one could hear the unmistakable "thunk" and "tinkle" that mean Al was trowing dice with a few of the regulars. That also meant that quite frequently a round of coffee was on the house when Lady Luck wasn't treating Al so kindly.

Another favorite spot in fairly recent history was the Shady Drive Inn restaurant on the corner of Maple Avenue and HIghway 30.  What brought that to mind was the recent passing of Mary Anne Conway, who along with her husband Ron, owned and operated Ronnie's Dairy Creme on that very spot in the late seventies.Both restaurants were quite popular and iconic to the locals.

Though I didn't have the chance to visit Ronnie's, I recall many a Saturday lunch at the Shady Drive Inn with Deana Swenson at the helm.  It was there that I tasted my first "beef commercial" and fell instantly in love with the dish, which is actually a regional favorite in these parts.  

We all know that on the same site as Ronnie's and the Shady, sits a fine restaurant known as the Grain Exchange that has garnered the roots set by both drive in restaurants and grow up there. 

How wonderful when one eatery dies, that another is born to take its place.  That's what happened with the ever popular Royal Supper club, which was dining at its finest several decades ago in the seventies. That supper club has evolved through the years, at times experiencing growing pains yet surviving and thriving today. From the Royal, it became Chelsey's, then the Royal Loon and today, City Limits.

But what of the many restaurants and eateries that were a part of this town through the years and no longer exist. Surely you have your favorite of your own to tout.  There s a good chance that when you close your eyes to remember, you can almost see the crispy hash browns or the chicken fried steak, or the warm, aromatic apple pie Ala mode that you used to order at one of these diners. It's true that many of these wonderful spots live on vividly in our memories.Perhaps because the sense of smell and taste are such powerful ones.

In my case, it is the vision of aproned Al, master short order cook, or Ronnie in his distinctive paper diner cap, or cook Janet Reinsma calling out from the kitchen with an order to be picked up and delivered to a hungry customer.  Yes, those are the stuff of my dreams, vivid memories for me and they share file space in my mind along with oh so many more memories such as they.

August 17, 2015
You Do What You Have To Do

Number two son has flown the nest.  It's inevitable, yet when it actually happens it can hit you like an elephant sitting squarely on your chest.  You try to pretend that everything is fine, but for some reason, you just can't breathe.  And your vision is somehow blurred more often than usual.  You find yourself lost in a reverie of 19 years of life's files more often, thinking back to those days long ago.  Where did they go and how did that little one get to be a man so soon?

It's all natural, it's all good, and it's just life.  We all move on in one way or another, but that doesn't change the fact that the transition can be definitely bittersweet.

Days, merely days, ago I was walking with that youngster to his first day of kindergarten. Or so it seems I guess.  Eager for school, excited about learning, and always ready to go, he loved those school days.  And whether we will admit it, those first-day-of-schools are most often hardest on Mom. Giving your youngster over to the capable care of his teacher isn't an easy thing to do.  But we do it and walk away, blurred vision nonetheless, and don't look back.  

I've experienced that over and over again.  After the first few times, you just know when to walk on, brush it off.  When your child hits the ground with a sickening "thud", there's something in you that just wants to run and mother him and to take away the pain.  Another part of you says to bite your tongue, don a smile and tell him that he's alright. "Get back up", you tell him, "you'll be just fine."   It's frightening. You learn to bury that fear pretty quickly when you become a mother.  How else can your child learn the tough lessons in life if he never experiences pain? The pain is yours alone.

Your child, as he grows, develops into an independent, thinking individual. That, at times, can be heartbreaking and joyful at the same time. (I'm thinking the "terrible twos" or the "frightful fives" or the TEEN years).   But you know that you have done your job right when your child becomes a confident, caring, responsible young adult.  And you let go. And he flies.

He might not want to hold your hand anymore and you might not be needed on the first day of school  like you once were, but you'll be there for him anyway.  And when he hands you his loved-to-rags baby blanket and asks you to fix it for him, well then life's just the way it should be.  You know that you have done something right along the way.

August 10, 2015
That Darned Kitty

The other day I was checking in at a motel and noticed a ratty, well-loved stuffed animal lying forlornly behind the desk.  Seeing that little pink ratty something-or-other stopped me in my tracks.  Who, I wondered, did it belong to, and would it ever be reunited with its grateful little owner?  How many teary nights had been spent since its abandonment?  And what of its future. The motel clerk said that they hold on to lost items such as that for three months before discarding them.  Its days were  numbered, I thought sadly.

Seeing it I couldn't help but think back on quite a number of years when a youngster I know had a heartbreaking experience involving another much loved stuffed animal.  

This animal in particular was a kitty.  A much adored, rag-tag worn, beloved kitty.  It had been with him from the early years and rarely left his sight.  Indeed bedtime just wasn't complete without kitty to snuggle to sleep.  Kitty's tail had been reattached a number of times,  and the stuffing poked back in and seams mended.  Kitty was family. 

Then came the time that the two were parted.  After an overnight trip away from home in a motel and home at last, bedtime arrived and regular rituals were observed. Everything was in its place but where was kitty?!  Slowly the realization came that Kitty had not made the return trip, alas.  Heartbreak shown in that little one's eyes as he bravely faced the pillow alone that night.  For the first time without kitty by his side.  Soft sobs could be heard through the door that night and the next and the next.  Truly it was heartbreaking.

A phone call to the motel with a plea to search the lost and found box just one more time in search of that little ball of fur brought no results.  The maids, the operator said, rarely salvage such items and kitty was most likely tossed into the garbage.  The suggestion to the clerk to search the trash barrel brought no satisfaction either.  

Next day a phone call came from the motel saying that the kitty had been found and had been put into the mail and should be arriving home any day.  Day upon day arrived, but no package ever did. A phone call to the post office led to the dead letter department where a clerk noted that after a a few weeks, most deliverable mail was destroyed. 

Next came the cleverly crafted letter to the post office describing the dire situation and the young boy still distraught over the loss of his best friend.  A personal reply arrived, praising the fine efforts of the author of the letter.  But no found kitty.

Weeks went on, and one day a phone call came from a disheveled motel clerk with the news that kitty had been found tucked away on a shelf, waiting to be mailed back to the boy.  Yes, he had been there all along, it turns out, unable to call out to someone, anyone, who might notice him.  Odds are the Legend of Kitty had been ingrained on the employees of the motel so when he was spotted, there was no mistake to whom he belonged.

When they offered to mail the kitty back to the boy, it was determined that no chances were to be taken a second time and that kitty must be picked up in person. And that he was.  Not long after, kitty was returned to the boy and remains with him to this day.  He might not be front and foremost in his life anymore, but chances are there's a bond that will never fade when it comes to kitty and the boy.

The lessons here?  Leave your valuable treasures at home when you travel. Love deeply, without abandon your cherished items.  And never give up. Ever.  

August 3, 2015
The Sweet Taste of Summer

These are indeed the glory days of summer, with lush, green vegetation and fresh vegetables and fruits galore.  Yes, nature is in full  production right now. I remember those days of reaping the garden's harvest and enjoying the bounty.  Nothing quite like it.  These days I merely rely on my memory and the farmer's market to provide the pleasure of freshly grown produce.

Going to the farm in southern Iowa was a favorite thing for us city dwellers.  Thankfully we visited often and grew to cherish the farm and the aunts, uncles, and the cousins and grandparents there as well.  So many memories live vividly in my mind.  

My Grandma Hazel's garden was easily the size of half a city block and it was tended with love by my mother and her siblings, under grandma's direction. The garden produced, I'm sure, most of what the family needed for nourishment.  And what wasn't eaten fresh was preserved for the long winter months ahead. Maintaining that garden surely was no easy task and took hours of planting, weeding and harvesting.  There was no time to be bored on the farm in those days.

Grandma's creamed corn was a favorite of mine and I ate it with relish whenever she prepared it.  Her dish, of course, used freshly cut-from-the-cob corn kernels and farm-fresh cream.  Oh, so tasty that corn was that I recall gobbling it up happily.  Fried chicken was another staple and to this day remains a personal favorite.  The chicken was also harvested fresh from the coop just outside the backdoor of the old farmhouse.  And always, grandma would make a delightful angel food cake for dessert.  Sometimes, often with the number of cousins and birthdays abounding, the cake was topped with candles.

Family time at the farm was special and we were so fortunate to be a part of it.  A vivid memory of mine, as a youngster of not more than 7 or 8 years of age, is the arrival of Aunt Jeanne and Uncle Arthur bearing freshly picked strawberries and the fixings for homemade ice cream.  Our aunt and uncle were, it seemed, larger than life and exuded a rather sophisticated aura, even though they were country bred folk.  Aunt Jeanne always was beautifully appointed from her hair to her toes and Arthur possessed an unmistakable likeness to John Wayne or some other movie hero icon.

My uncle, with a tender heart the size of the state of Iowa, and voice to match, scooped me up in a rollicking welcome and I feeling frightened for some reason. But I soon forgot that trepidation when the ice cream making process began.  Fresh cream, sugar and eggs went into that mixture and Arthur's strong arms began cranking the handle of that ice cream machine out on the back porch.  It wasn't long, it seemed and it was ready.  Delectable fresh ice cream was dished up and topped with strawberries that seemed to melt faster than the ice cream.

Oh such memories!  And all brought on by the taste of freshly grown snap peas today.  There are days more numerous than imaginable when I wish I could travel back in time to that very night at the farm when family gathered, delicious food was abundant, and loved ones gathered all around.  Such joy!

Everything about life at grandpa and grandmas' farm was memorable and I will forever keep those thoughts in my heart.  

July 27, 2015
Fields Aren't Messy Anymore

Can someone out there please tell me why there are no longer any weeds littering the soybean fields? Row after row of plants in the bean fields thrive these days without the threat of being choked out of existence by noxious weeds and misguided corn plants.   In days past kids made a killing irradiating unwanted growth from the miles of acres of cropland. Not anymore.   Now all that meets the eye is miles of lush, neat, rows of soybean plants - minus the weeds.

It's rather beautiful, as is the rest of the landscape right now. It is positively sculpted with the corn standing tall and the beans lushly filling out the rows with deep green foliage.  

Now and then there are rivers of bare ground etched out and winding between cornfields,  forming a maze of pathways as far as the eye can see.  The colors are delightful:  blue-green, butter yellow and goldenrod.  It's a pallet almost as varied as a crayon box.

It's truly a sight to behold and one that I just don't tire of seeing.  

There's still that little matter of the missing weeds in the soybean fields.  And the hoe-wielding laborers scouring the fields.  Or the bean-spraying rig that one time carried a crew of weed zapping workers on it. What of all those things? Where did they go, and what do kids these days do to earn a living during their summer break? 

In a strange way, it's eerie.  Especially when, right in the midst of all this neatness, sits a messy field.

Straggly stray corn plants jut out of the bean field at random, resembling zombie-like creatures lurching their way across the land, arms reaching up toward the sky as they sway to and fro. The sight of it makes me smile a little.  (And want to run into the field and yank those usurpers out of the ground). But I guess that's not necessary.

These days farming has changed considerably from those few years gone by.   But one thing remains the same and that is the joy and awe I get from  watching a plant go from tiny seedling to mighty plant in nearly the blink of an eye.  (And, of course, the occasional alien plant now and then.)

July 20, 2015
Inquiring Minds Want to Know

It's no secret that science is not one of my fortes, but that doesn't mean that I'm not fascinated by some of the scientific phenomena that abound.  It's just that I don't always understand them and that's where the problem lies.

For instance, the other day while driving down the highway, I happened to notice the seemingly wet spots on the road up ahead.  The mirage could be caused by patchy rain showers I guessed, but I knew that it was that mystical, magical occurrence that never failed to amaze, amuse and astound me as a youth.  What causes this optical illusion, I've always wondered.  There must be some sort of scientific principal associated with it.

Have  you ever watched a good old western movie and wondered why the big wheels on the stage coach appear to be turning backwards while the buggy is flinging forward at breakneck speed?  That phenomenon can also be seen in car commercials on television.  Hm, I think that one has something to do with camera speed and revolutions or something like that.

What about the leaning into the box fan and speaking.  It comes out in a garbled Frankenstein-ish fashion.  What happens to the human voice when it leaves ones mouth and bounces off a rotating blade?  Apparently something is terribly lost in the translation.

Have you ever wondered how those little tiny spiders that appear out of nowhere manage to spin their filmy fiberoptic-like thread of a highway?  To what is that strand attached?  And where are they going?  I can only hope that they make it there safely because spiders could be considered one's best friend at the rate of insects that they consume (thus causing me less fear and anxiety at running across a creepy crawler unexpectedly).

When I was a youngster I used to think that the occasional spots spots in front of my eyes meant that I had superhuman vision and could see atoms and molecules.  Guess that was just wishful thinking and those spots are caused by something other than that.  

All around there are so many wondrous happenings that  I view in great awe.  Gravity for one.  Why does a ball bounce back when dropped?  Wouldn't you think the pull gravity would hold that orb down once it falls?  Why do other objects plunge to a resting spot when dropped?  I am guessing that one has something to do with mass.  I can only speculate how splendid it would be to loft about in zero gravity.  Maybe some day.....

And finally, here's an interesting one for you:  take a cottonwood tree twig and slice it on one of the many striations along its length.  Inside you will find a perfectly shaped star.  Now that's what you call the magic of nature!  Native American legend has it that the limbs contain the souls of the dearly departed and when released, the stars are given up to the sky.  

I'd like to know the answers to these and many other scientific stumpers, so if you've got the answer, I'm listening.  I can of course turn to the library for help because I know that somewhere in those multitudinous stacks of information, therein lies the secret answer.  

Then again, maybe I'll consult one of the science fair whiz kids next school year and see what they know.  I'm sure they can teach me a thing or two about science.  And you're never too old to learn something new.  

July 13, 2015
On the Fence

"Give me lands, lots of land under starry skies above, don't fence me in....." crooned Gene Autry in the 40s.  The song, penned by Cole Porter and made famous by a plethora of musical giants including Roy Rogers, Eddy Arnold and the Andrews Sisters, came to mind the other day while rolling along the country highway.

In days long ago, seems like every section of cropland was fenced in by miles and miles of sagging barbed wire.  This "no trespassing" district somehow always seemed to make me a bit uneasy and a little sad.  

But back in those days, barbed wire, which predated the ultimate electrical fence, was the rage.  Every farm had lots of it and every field was encircled by it.  Patented in the late 1800s, barbed wire, or "barb wire and bob wire", was widely used in the development of farmland in the wild west and beyond.

But did you know that not all barbed wire was created equal?  My Uncle Merrill collected barbed wire.  That was just one of his many collections, by the way.  Uncle Merrill's farm was and still is a time capsule filled with all manner of fascinating and mundane of objects.  Merrill's collection revealed the intricacies and artistic merit found in the many variations of bob wire. Almost like snowflakes, no two manufactured products were alike and as a collector, he took it upon himself to know his wire well. I can still recall him proudly displaying one after another length of wire, displaying the uniqueness that each possessed.

I mention the fencing because it seems like lately it has become a thing of the past.  Oh yes, there are still ghost-like fields with barb wire sagging around the perimeter that I've noticed mostly in the Dakotas, but for the most part, it's wide open space, much like in the days of the wild, wild west when wide open spaces ran for miles with no constraints.  

Of course, there is the matter of domain and ownership these days and trespassing is generally frowned upon.  I do honor those constraints, but I can proudly say that I also possess the knowledge of how to cross a barbed wire fence safely without ripping the seat of my britches or one's  calf for that matter.  Here's the trick:  You place one foot firmly on the bottom wire.  At the same time, lift the top wire and shimmy through the opening with little hesitation.  This I know to be the only and safest way to traverse a bob wire fence.

Don't even ask me why I have the need for that knowledge.  Suffice it to say I have spent many a childhood day on the farm traipsing around the back pasture and safely slipping through the tricky bob wire fences.

So, what is the trend these days?  It would seem that, while there are fences to be found, most have gone the way of progress.  Farming today isn't what it used to and the behemoth equipment used requires lots of space, wide open space,  to function.  

I'm content with that notion.  But what of all the discarded barbed wire fencing?  Where has it gone and who is tending it?  Well, were Uncle Merrill still alive, I'm sure he'd have amassed his share of it happily.  I can only hope that someone, somewhere is enjoying the unexpected intricacies of barb wire.

June 30, 2015
Fast Food Line Hijinx

The other day while trapped in a lethargic fast food drive-through line, my eyes were drawn to a fellow customer up ahead, and I amused myself by watching her place an order.  There certainly was a whole lot of action going on as she sat and dictated her order into the talking box mounted on the big menu board.

She knew just what her carload of hungry souls wanted and was busy conveying that message to the receiver on the other end of that box, gesticulating like a zealous lecturer behind a podium.  Suffice it to say there was a whole lot of hand language going on.  In particular there was finger pointing as she jabbed the air to emphasize the medium cola that she wanted with the Happy Meal, and swiping of the air in a gesture of grandiose flair when the attendant had repeated the order as dictated.  It was a sight to behold.  

I couldn't help but wonder just what this woman did when she wasn't behind the wheel of an S.U.V. filled with children.  Perhaps a teacher, or a minister, or a school crossing guard.  Or maybe she just liked to let her hands do the speaking. Some folks are like that.

Then it was my turn and I inched up to the talking box to express my ravenous wishes.  Slowly and distinctly, I spoke into the box, telling the clerk behind the counter just what I wanted.  In turn, the talking box uttered a tinny, "Can you rep-----t  t---at?" Once again I conveyed my wishes for a chicken sandwich and small fry.  "Whah?" the box retorted to me.  This was getting just a little bit trite I thought jovially.  

And then I heard, "Sir, you'll have to turn off your truck because it's making too much noise."  Okay, I thought, looking around for a gentleman driving a four-wheel drive truck or semi-tractor rig to whom I could pass along this message.  There was no one else in sight.  They must have been talking to me, I deduced.  So I dutifully switched off my little Volkswagen diesel car and repeated my order yet again. Slowly, determinedly, purposefully.

Voile', this time I could be heard and my order was confirmed!  As I crept away from the little voice box I heard a voice trailing, "Did you want an apple pie with that order sir," it queried.  Too late, I thought.  That would only mess up my order and the poor clerk wouldn't have an inkling  how to manually add the cost to my total charges. Besides, I had already scrounged in my purse for the exact change of $2.38 and was busy wrapping it all in a little bundle to hand to the cashier.  I like doing that, it kind of makes their day because they don't have to do anything but count the change and place it in the cash register.  

Makes me smile.

I made it to the ribbon, crossed the finish line, a bag of lunch in hand.  As I drove away I marveled at a world in which we live,  with food at our fingertips at a moment's notice and  never having to leave the safety of one's car.  Fast food it is called.  And it hits the hunger spot nicely at times.  

Now if they could only find a way to make a voice box that actually communicates in a lucid manner.  That would be progress indeed.  But then again, it would take all the fun out of ordering fast food from a take-out lane I suppose.  

June 23, 2015
The Day the Trains Ceased to Roll

As I traverse the back roads (a great deal lately), my mind tends to wander. As you might recall, that can sometimes be a bad thing.  Other times it might lead me to certain realizations and recollections that warm the heart.  I was thinking just the other day about the railroad and how it played a vital role in every community here on the prairie. Back in the day that is.  

You may recall that the last train rolled through Slayton in August of 1980.  Before that, the railway was an important part of life in these parts.  It was a lifestyle.  Commodities were easily shipped in and out of the area on the railway that ran every day, rain or shine.  Timely shipment was guaranteed and produced.  Then came the time when the railroad was deemed inefficient for one or another reason and its demise was eminent.  Train traffic halted, rails ripped up and ties pulled out of service.  

The trains were silenced. 

After that time, things changed irrevocably.  The local newspaper reported in the summer of 1980:  "Rotted ties and a dirt road are all that's left of the railroad lines that once went through Currie."  The profile of the prairie was forever altered.

I miss the railroad greatly.  I recall falling asleep on cool summer evenings with my windows flung wide open (we didn't have air conditioning back in the days when I was a youngster), and lolling off to slumber hearing the far distant rumble and clanking of the railroad cars just to the south of town.  Music to my ears.

Perhaps that is why now in my new place of employment so near to my roots of childhood, I require my office window to be open while sitting at my desk, because just off in the near distance there is daily, hourly, train traffic working its way past. In fact, if i crane out the window, I can see the train cars inching across the overpass on their destination to who knows where.

That has always been a fascination to me:  watching a train on its journey - or racing it along the highway on a parallel destiny.  The colorful, mysterious graffiti glinting along the tracks like sidewalk chalk art.  Oh the stories those cars could tell if only we knew the rest of the story, of those on the other end of the line...

The decision to remove the railroads from many of southwest Minnesota towns must have been a difficult one indeed.  Because in its wake, that left countless railroad right of way land parcels to deal with.  "The right of way have been built up and, as such, are not easily converted back to productive farmland without considerable effort," Southwest Regional Development Commission transportation planner Rich Holte said in a 1980 newspaper interview.

The land, he went on to say, would most likely be sold in many cases to farmers owning adjoining land along the railroad tracks.  But once acquired, the farmer was confronted with a "cleanup mess":  removal of rails, railroad ties and anything else of value would have to be done.  Rock or cinder bedding material had to be removed or buried deep enough so as to allow the growth of crops. In short, it took a lot of work to restore the land to any usable form.

The best use of those old railroad beds, I believe, is to leave them alone.  Transform them into public spaces such as done in northern Minnesota on the Paul Bunyan trail and what has been the dream in southwest Minnesota with the Casey Jones trail.  That way we can all continue to use, to enjoy and to appreciate the once vital vein of transportation: the mighty railway.  And believe me, the view from the train track is remarkable.  Oh to have been a railway worker back in the day.....the sights we would have seen and the places we would have gone.  

June 15, 2015
Who Turned Off the Wind?

You might think that we live in the windiest spot on earth, or perhaps just in these parts at least.  Well, generally that's so but, as Murphy's Law dictates, when there's a chance that something can go wrong, well, it's going to go there.  When the folks just to our south launched the wind surfing regatta 16 years ago in Worthington, it was done with much thoughtful contemplation.  After all, the wind practically howls around here on a daily basis and you've got a good sized lake, spectators and visitors flocking from around the nation to descend upon every year at this time to harness the wind and sail upon the water.

What's not to love?  Well, what's NOT to love was that the wind machine oddly shut itself off for the span of two days, idling the colorful sailboards to a crawl, gasping to catch a breath of elusive wind.  You can imagine that there wasn't a lot of knuckle biting, knee clicking, hair raising competition there this past weekend.  But as with most things in life, you make do and there was, it sounds, like an abundance of great music and food to boot.  And fear not, the winds were back on track today just in time for the visitors' departure.  Nonetheless it was too late for the festivities.  To my recollection this is only the second or third time in the history of the regatta that the wind has skunked them all.

Even though we face a daily incessant assault of winds, it's comforting to know that, though it seems like there is probably no windier spot on earth,  Minneapolis is only ranked 9th as the windiest major city.  With an average of 10.5 miles per hour, it ranks below Boston, which holds the coveted title of advanced wind machine with average blows of 12.3 miles per hour.  So much for bragging rights, which Minnesotans love to hold.  But hey, we can still boast of the coldest spot in the winter (where typically temperatures drop below zero 23 times a year, number one in the nation - Minneapolis again).

Wind has its bright spots:  it powers daily the massive wind machines that dot the landscape far and wide, producing megawatts of electricity in a silent manner.  It does a great job of drying the laundry when its hung out of doors.  And, depending on the direction you're headed, it can boost gas mileage by leaps and bounds.

But here in the land of the windy hairdo, we just learn to live with this phenomenon every day.  After all, like they keep saying, there's nothing we can do about it.  Except take up a sail board on those airy days, or grab a paddle boat when the winds remain still.  

Another thing they say:  when life gives you lemons, just make some lemonade.  Sounds like a great idea.  Or sun tea.  I hear that we've got some of the hottest weather around come July....those scorcher days will be good for something at least (besides growing mammoth corn plants, which by the way, is well over knee high and it's not even close to the fourth of July yet!)

June 8, 2015
Family Ties are the  Knot that Holds Us Together

The Circle of Life is a term we've all heard about.  But  never has it been more evident than the last week that I spent with my family on our annual gathering at the lake when, on the last night of a week  spent together, a spontaneous ring of unity formed in thankful togetherness on the last night that we were to share.  Hand in hand, it was a moment not long to be forgotten.

For the last fifty years this family of mine has gathered in the northern lakes of Minnesota for a week of family and fun and fellowship.  In that span of time memories have been made, friendships and bonds forged, and history made.  This past week was by far no exception to the rule and has created memories that will forever remain in our hearts.

It was momentous, that gathering, when three generations gathered one last time for the week and joined hands in celebration before enjoying a feast on the last evening together. Yes it was a "pot luck" or "pitch in" like my Ohio cousins called it, that brought us all together after a week of fishing and vacationing  together.  We joined hands, three generations,  in an ever-growing circle and gave thanks that we could be there to share, to experience, and to appreciate the history and family that has brought us to and held us all together through the years.

I couldn't help but feel a magical tingle of excitement as I joined that circle knowing that my family, as diverse and complex as it is, was gathered in unity.  

Through the decades, since 1963, my family has come together to share one week every other summer.  In that time there have been great losses and  many gains.  It is the losses that are of course deeply felt.  This year we recognized a dearly loved uncle's passing and the loss of a great aunt and grandmother that happened that very week.  But together we shared the loss and celebrated their lives and what they meant to each of us.  

The losses are deeply felt yet at the same time, new life is celebrated.  Time marches on and new life continues the cycle. It is the ability to look back and cherish the times gone by that is the supreme gift.  When traditions are carried on and when the past is honored it is the greatest legacy imaginable.

As we stood that night,  hand in hand, I felt the spirit of those dear ones who have come before us in our very midst.  And that gave me somehow the strength to move on and embrace life. 

Life - family, it is a bond beyond which we cannot fathom.  Embrace and celebrate. And never forget.  Carry on your legacy and you will never regret.  

May 25, 2015
Trees Provide the Spice of Life

When I look at my lawn lately, it's no wonder, I think, that there are so many scads of maple trees around town.  The grounds these days are absolutely teeming with innumerable little seed pods that we, as kids, one time took great folly in sending the little whirligigs on a journey to the ground.  It was such fun watching those little helicopters flit to the ground.

That was then.  Today I'm not so amused. At the same time I'm fascinated at just how many seeds one tree can produce.  And with 7 of the beauties in my midst, litter my lawn.

It's safe to say that the maple tree is in no danger of extinction because of the sheer volume of reproductive matter that is being scattered about this time of year.  

I'm the sort of person who finds it tough to pull a lovely little mapling youngster that has sprouted in my flower bed.  They're just so cute and cuddly and, well, aren't all little youngsters hard to resist?  But despite that, I do find the need to keep up with the little fellows and weed as necessary.  The alternative, you can  imagine, would be the massive influx of numerous mighty maple tree taking over the territory.

And we just can't let that happen.  So, as I find one after another of the lovely little maple sprouts invading my space, I gingerly pluck them from the ground.  I will say in defense, that I have a little plot, my own private tree garden, where I've encouraged their growth.  Several are ready to leave the nest and live on their own somewhere - but where I have not yet determined.  Their future remains yet to be determined.

I'm an avid tree planter and the first time I experienced that was in recent years.  My first tree plan is Peter.  Peter Cottonwood, and he lives in my north yard.  In the two years since he was adopted he has tripled in size.  You just can't stop their growth, even if you put a brick on their heads, my people used to tell me, the gangling youngster who they saw on a yearly basis.  I don't think that'd have worked my case at any rate.

The next lovely tree to join my little family was Bruce.  Bruce is a Blue Spruce evergreen and since his adoption a year ago he's doubled in size. I marvel at the new shoots that he is displaying these days and look forward to him branching out into a full grown lovely conifer.

Miss Marple joined our ranks last summer.  Miss Marple is a red maple and she has already taken on the lovely hues of one season of fall foliage.  I look forward to many more years of association with my newest deciduous tree. 

Yes, I'm a tree hugger.  I adopted 3 fledgling oak trees from the lake up  north two years ago.  They'd sprouted out unwittingly on the sandy beach where I found them and rescued them.   They thrived beautifully in the soil where I planted them at home, until the harsh winter got them in its grasps and froze the life out of them.  Too bad because I was looking forward to finding homes for those remarkable mighty little oaks. 

Fear not.  Next week I'm headed to family vacation up north once again and you can bet I'll be on the look out for more sprouting acorns.  I"m sure they won't mind coming south to live and this time I'll make sure to furnish them with an insulated pot next winter.  

Now......to come up with the appropriate oak names to provide my little charges.  I'll be accepting any and all suggestions.