Monday, March 30, 2009

Mary Poppins (March 26th, 2009) Shakopee Valley News

The wind blew most of Sunday and all through the night. I don’t always like the wind. It chaps my face and tires me out. My friend Dr. Jack is a keen observer of the wind and the changes it brings. When the wind started coming out of the East I thought perhaps that Mary Poppins was going to blow into town. The movie starring Julie Andrews was based on the book written by P.L. Travers. I generally prefer books over a film adaptation (and I enjoy watching movies), but this particular book gets a little crazy at times (it takes nail biting to a Lecter-like level) so I recommend the movie.

I suspect that there are perhaps dozens of web-sites, articles, books (maybe even a few columns) devoted to the child-rearing lessons learned from Mary. I have also read about economists who refer to the story when explaining panicked bank runs and the magic of compound interest, so clearly I cannot take credit for bringing this idea to light, but as there is “nothing new under the sun,” I would like to offer my own list of observations. The book All I Really Need To Know I Learned In Kindergarten by Robert Fulghum, suggests that the really important things are not complex. I think that the ideals brought forth in The Mary Poppins story run the same course. Lord knows right now we certainly could use her practically perfect approach to problems.

Mary Poppins traveled light; taking everything she needs in her carpet bag. I like that uncluttered approach. Take what you need and leave the rest. The greedy accumulation of possessions and money should not be the end goal, but rather a means to fund the journey through life. Coins (tuppence) traded for bird seed (and perhaps because of that exchange the old woman selling the seed is able to support herself), lasts longer as a meaningful memory than placing them in a savings account where inflation pecks away at it.

When it becomes necessary to take your medicine (or any of the other required doses of cures and consequences) it always helps to do so with a spoonful of sugar. It just makes tough things easier to swallow when accompanied with something pleasant. Otherwise mundane tasks can be made easier with an “element of fun.”

Mary’s friends (Bert the chimney sweep) and family members (Uncle Albert) are light hearted, caring individuals who freely share their time and talent with children, and always without an appointment. Some wonderful jokes which later prove to be life changing are told by Uncle Albert and Bert (beautifully played by Ed Wynne and Dick Van Dyke) during the time with Mary Poppins, and the Bank’s children in Uncle Albert’s home. The story does a good job of demonstrating how time spent with older relatives, who are often neglected, can be very rewarding.

Jane and Michael Banks only desired time with their father, but Mr. Banks was under pressure to perform at his job at the bank leaving no time and energy to invest in his children at the end of the day. It isn’t until the end of the movie where we see that George Banks finally learns the truth after he is fired from his job. But as is often the case, something good comes from an otherwise unpleasant situation. He now is able to see what he had been missing. Whether it’s flying kites or telling jokes at a tea party, time with family and friends is more precious than gold. Think of that the next time the wind blows.

Happy Birthday Mom (March 19th, 2009) Shakopee Valley News

Mom had her birthday Tuesday. She would have been 80 this year, but she passed away on a Sunday last July so this year I celebrated the grand day without her. St. Patrick’s Day was special for her, and because of that, it was special to her kids. Mom (Pat to her friends) was all Irish. So to honor her memory and acknowledge my own Irish heritage I wore green (as did all those blessed with Irish blood and those wishing they had been).
She grew up on a small farm near Kilkenny (Minnesota – not Ireland). After she was married she and Dad moved to Belle Plaine where many Irish families had settled. I know Kucera is not an Irish name, but my mother’s family accepted Dad as if he were a member of their clan. That’s the way the Irish are. You don’t have to be Irish; but you must have a thirst for it. Mom came from a large family, and because of that I have many cousins. The O’Meara side of my family still gets together for family reunions conducted in the Irish tradition.

There are really only two places to celebrate St. Patrick’s Day in Minnesota. One is St. Paul and the other is Belle Plaine. Oh sure, there are others – but none of any real notability. So I went back home Tuesday to reconnect with my past. Growing up in a small town with a strong Irish influence and having a Mother of pure Irish descent affects a person in ways that six-hundred words can’t fully explain. You can’t escape who you are. The way I approach life was sharply influenced by those days in Belle Plaine.

It’s been said that the Irish don’t take themselves too seriously. Now I ask you is there a better way to go through life? There was a lot of fun to be had with Mom. She didn’t waste precious time by making her house spic and span. She was content with just spic.
She didn’t win any awards for cooking either. As a former first grade teacher Mom made sure all five of her kids could read at an early age. We had a box of crayons (we called them colors) that she would often take out to draw and color with us. She also played games with us and with often her in the lead we learned to create our own worlds of make-believe. We also played a lot of records in that house on Church Street.

On St. Patrick’s Day Mom would listen to Carmel Quinn and Dennis Day. I now prefer Van Morrison and U2, but that’s just me. .Mom didn’t celebrate her St. Patrick’s Day birthday by raising a pint of Guinness. The very thought of it - Honestly. Her way was more in step with the wearin’ of the green, a Shamrock to remind the world that she’s Irish, and maybe a wee bit of Bailey’s in her coffee.

Many years ago I had a boss who gave me some wonderful advice. “Make your home a place where your children will want to bring their friends. That way you will know where your children are and who their friends are.” Looking back on my childhood Mom already knew that. My friends were always welcome at our house. They were comfortable in talking with Mom, and many of them came to say good-bye at her funeral.

So even though she’s not here anymore I still feel compelled to extend my greeting to her one more time. “Happy Birthday Mom and Happy St. Patrick’s Day.”

Time Travel (March 12th, 2009) Shakopee Valley News

I think I need some sleep. I am writing this on Sunday, the day after the big change. Daylight Saving Time began this morning at 2 a.m. and I feel completely screwed up. Monday won’t be much better because I still won’t be over this jet lag sensation. We should make this change on Friday night, which would give me the whole weekend to adjust. My sense of time is way off. For example I think it’s about 4:00 and it ends up being 9:15. It may not even be Sunday anymore for all I know. I have trouble enough contending with the normal passage of time without agreeing to “lose” an hour. Oh sure I get it back in the fall but without any mention of interest or compensation. By the time you read this on Thursday I may actually have got used to the time change. I may even have begun to appreciate the longer sunlit days. But right now I am confused, annoyed, tired and crabby.

I tried to nap to “catch up” but that only made things worse. I woke up more tired than when I closed my eyes for a few minutes, or maybe it was a few hours. I just don’t know. My hair (what little of it there is) is all twisted around and I feel like I need to shower with coffee. Lather, rinse and repeat.

I know there were probably good reasons to begin this weird experiment but I choose not to discuss them right now – maybe tomorrow when I’m in a better mood. It may have started on Easter Island or at Stonehenge. This need we have to control something as ancient as time may even be supported with modern day reasoning, but I contend we should rethink this whole thing. Oh sure, President Obama talks about Hope and Change but when is he going to quit messing with our clocks? Certainly former President Bush can be blamed for this untimely mess. Will our children and grandchildren have to make up for this lost time?

Arizona and Hawaii don’t observe Daylight Saving Time – lawbreakers! Even Puerto Rico, the Virgin Islands, and American Samoa have chosen not to participate in this time warp. Kyrgyzstan (a country near China) observes it year round. How does that work? Can’t we all just get along?

As a society we love time travel – and that’s what we’re talking about isn’t? Springing ahead, falling back. H.G. Wells’ book The Time Machine, Peggy Sue, Marty McFly, Doug & Tony from the 60’s TV show The Time Tunnel all entertained us with the concept of going back and forth in time. Even respected scientists Albert Einstein and Carl Sagan have discussed the concept. But for all this dreaming all we can muster is an hour here or there.

I say if one hour is good – why not two? Is it possible to change the clocks and gain longer weekends? Maybe slow down time so your kids stay little longer? Let’s really make a difference and skip entire days. Take one day at a time – nonsense! Let’s have some fun and take three days all at once. But please let’s turn back the clock enough to let me get out of the market.

I propose that this autumn we should fall back an entire week. That way we could take a paid vacation mandated by the government like they do in Europe. We’re headed that direction anyway. I should go to bed. I have to get up at 6 a.m.- or is it 5 or 7?

Farm Dog (March 5th, 2009) Shakopee Valley News

There is an old saying about accepting the gift of a horse without reviewing its dental records. It says nothing about dogs. My family has had four dogs over the last fifteen years. One we actually purchased. The other three were given to us. The first one was given to us against our will. A guy we knew said that his daughter had to “get rid of her dog,” and he wondered if we were interested. I guess he called us because we fit the “free to a good home” description. I told “our acquaintance” that he could bring the dog by the house and we would think about it. I imagined that he would make an appointment to come over and exchange pleasantries normally found in polite society. Sometime during the course of this social call we would regard the dog, and then after careful consideration – perhaps even sleeping on it (the decision, not the dog), we would let him know if we accepted his offer.

But I guess that all he heard was some kind of code talk for “Sure, we’d love to have him,” because in less than an hour he showed up with the dog and all the accessories (normally sold separately). I have never seen anyone unload anything from a van so fast – unless you count littering. He dumped everything: the dog, leash, food including the chewed-up dish, and assorted germ laden toys.

“Well, here you go. His name is Winston. Thanks. Bye.”

I am not even sure he put his van in park. Well we couldn’t have a dog named after a cigarette lest people think us bad parents and turn us over to the authorities, but the dog was already named so we softened it to Winnie. It wasn’t necessarily a masculine name, but it was a name that the kids liked and was reasonably close to the name that the dog came with.

Winnie was (I am sure he’s dead by now, as I almost killed him several times myself) a Siberian husky, He had crazy eyes: one was ice-blue, the other brown. Winnie was good to the kids, but his other qualities were all bad: He howled instead of barked; he ran the other way when he was called; he loathed all other animals – especially farm fowl. In fact, if Noah had selected Winnie as one of the two dogs for the ark’s maiden voyage – well breakfast would be decidedly different without chicken eggs on the menu.

After Winnie killed our chickens, he introduced himself to the neighbors by killing their chickens as well. I tried to confine him, really I did. But he was better at escaping than I was at confining. He could jump over a five foot fence and tunnel under a wall without any excavating equipment. When it became apparent that this dog was not a “farm dog,” we gifted him to someone else. I made it very clear to the new owner of Winnie’s proclivity for killing, but he had his own plans to take the dog “up North,” presumably to have him hitched to a sled. How far north? The further the better I thought.

Several weeks after we had accepted the gift of another dog that needed a good home I received a phone call. Apparently Winnie had escaped from his new owner and was now terrorizing Northern Minnesota. Apparently they traced Winnie back to me using his dog tags. I reminded the caller of the old adage which required him to accept the gift of this dog without criticism, comment or dental inspection.

Hobby Time (February 26th, 2009) Shakopee Valley News

I’ve struggled for years trying to create a hobby for myself. I believed that a hobby consisted of some physical activity which often involved building, creating or fixing something. As a child I was under the impression that every boy should have a hobby. The old saying “Idle hands are the devil’s workshop,” was often used as a reason to have a hobby. So as I understood it I could avoid spending eternity in Hades if I built model airplanes using glue. I remember thinking I had already made the trip when I, up to my elbows in stickiness, struggled to put the models together. I got glue on myself, the kitchen table, but very little on the airplane. The completed models never looked like the picture on the box. Rather they resembled a tragic accident. It was later discovered that some kids were creating their own Hell on earth by sniffing the airplane glue

There were boys in the neighborhood who God had blessed with the ability to build stuff. Where my friend Tom had constructed a clubhouse accessorized with secret trap doors and multiple levels, I opted for the more basic blankets-held-in-place-by-books-over-a-card table look. It wasn’t as showy – but it was easy and reasonably fool proof in assembly. This wonderful abode gave my brothers and me hours of fun until my mother decided that three months was long enough to have a club house in her basement.

Later on guys began working on their cars and trucks. I was again limited by my lack of interest and ability. I really liked enjoyed driving the cars – I just couldn’t fix them. Oh sure, I could handle the simple things like changing the radio station on my car – but that was about it. I still had no hobby.

Hunting and fishing have been tried – but again, no interest. It’s not a PETA style of objection that I have, I think my short attention span prevents me from spending too long of a time sitting in one spot waiting for something to happen.

I was once asked if I had a hobby that I really enjoyed. I took it as a two part question.
Woodworking - but I hate it. Yes I even went down that rode for a while. I refinished furniture in the barn for a while until one tormented evening I was refinishing a pie safe when I mistakenly thought that I could improve the doors. I took a little off of one, then the other, then the other was too long. So I kept at this insane exercise for two hours until I was left with a piece of furniture that could keep only four pies secure.

I always enjoyed reading but I resisted calling it a hobby. But my position is beginning to weaken. The school district where my daughter teaches has declared February “I Love To Read Month.” Jennifer, recognizing that her Dad could read, invited me in to read to her kindergarten class. Well here was something I could do. I scanned the children’s books on my book shelf and selected an old favorite: TheHappy Man And His Dump Truck. I also went to the kids section at the library and checked out The Great Pig Escape. Pigs make great stories.

I had the best day. I got to visit my daughter’s classroom and read to her kids. The kids loved the books I chose and sat around my chair giggling at the pictures of pigs while I read to them. I guess reading can be a hobby - especially when it is enjoyed.

Smoking In Cars (February 19th, 2009) Shakopee Valley News

Finally, I see we have come to our senses. Nora Slawik, a Minnesota State Representative, has introduced a bill (HF -0379) which would make it illegal to smoke in a vehicle while transporting a child under the age of 18 years of age. Where was she forty years ago? My own father would occasionally light up with five kids in the car. Why is it there is never a cop around when you really need one?

I would have loved to see my family’s summer vacation interrupted by Dad getting arrested in the middle of South Dakota for smoking in the car. Why they could have thrown the book at him. I am quite sure not one of us had our seat belt fastened; there may even have been a car seat violation as well as my younger sister was wandering freely violating many of today’s current laws.

Thankfully we now have guardians like Representative Slawik. I don’t smoke but I look forward to the day when it is illegal to smoke in one’s own home. I would love to see the neighborhood watch program expanded to include a whistle-blowing division. If you see your neighbors smoking – you can rat on them and have them arrested and dragged out into the street – hopefully in the middle of night. Oh yeah, I can’t wait.

Let’s not stop there though. I understand that many of our foods are laced with fat-inducing contents. During my own wicked childhood I used to eat sugar cubes (right out of the box), and eat spoonfuls of brown sugar. I loved the texture, the taste and the nice little lift it gave me on a summer afternoon. Mom used to sprinkle sugar on cottage cheese to make it more palatable, and until recently I could not eat spahgettios with out a generous helping of sugar. My mother should have been in jail, and I along with my brothers and sisters could have become wards of the state. What terrible parents I must have had. I only hope that change will come soon for the old ways must pass away quickly.

I am thinking that maybe we could create a new security force. They would of course be an arm of the government, but they could also be a clearinghouse of sorts for citizen’s complaints. The name of the new force must be something easily remembered; an acronym would be best: Safe Society?

I have additional ideas to create a more perfect world. The parents of overweight children should be investigated. Strict bedtimes must be enforced to assure the correct amount of nightly sleep. We can also monitor what television and radio shows are broadcast into homes. The mind reels to what good we can accomplish if we put our hearts ino it.

Make the television show Family Guy illegal in homes where children under 16 reside; require reading of certain publications so that we are all on the same page; prohibit reading of bad things (to be determined later), outlaw stripes worn with checks, make helmets mandatory for many recreational activities - bikes, skateboarding, skiing (both snow and water). I would also like to see other protective clothing put in place – such as safety glasses and hearing protection.

Now I know that some of these ideas may seem radical to most of you. Let’s just give it some time. In a few short years you will hardly notice the changes. The government knows best and it is time to publicly acknowledge this and yield to its higher authority. I think Representative Slawik could be our next President.

Let's Stay In Touch (February 12th, 2009) Shakopee Valley News

I am turning into an old man, or at least middle aged. I don’t like it, and I ‘m fighting it every stuttered step. I will have my fiftieth birthday this summer and I must tell you I find it a bit unsettling. I exercise irregularly, I eat healthy sometimes, and I could lose a few pounds. I am beginning to be mindful of my mortality. When I was a kid, my friend Mark had a saying for any dire circumstance we found ourselves in “Well, we’re not going to die.” With that proclamation everything was put in perspective; we knew everything was going to be O.K. Back in the ‘70’s in Belle Plaine we thought we were immortal. I don’t feel that anymore. When I hit fifty years of age I will finally accept being in the middle aged category. You see I plan on living to one-hundred, so naturally I had to wait until fifty to be called middle aged.

A couple weeks ago one of my high school classmates exited before he reached that middle age marker. Tim was one of the 101 of us who graduated in 1977 from Belle Plaine High. Back then we thought that Shakopee was the beginning of the “cities”. Our class was the largest ever to go through the Belle Plaine schools – a small class by today’s standards. Back then you knew everyone’s name, which was no trick. Most of us even had nicknames – some had more than one. The real challenge of staying in touch came years later. I knew Tim but I had lost touch with him. We exchanged pleasantries when we would see each other at a class reunion, or maybe the county fair, but I am sorry to say it didn’t go much further. Now it’s too late. He’s gone and I don’t know why. But, I don’t need to. That’s not my concern.

But, what has become clearer to me now – is that maintaining friendships is more important than any job or any task; it is worth any effort it might take. I am not going to pretend that Tim and I were close – we weren’t. We did receive our first communion together, we were confirmed at the same time, we were disciplined by the same nuns, and we fought with each other while playing floor hockey in Mr. Miller’s Physical Education Class, and then sometime over the last thirty years we went our separate ways. It often happens that way. I knew Tim for over forty-five years. I don’t know - that seems like a long time, long enough to stay in touch when you live in the same county all your life. I’ll take the blame. I didn’t do a very good job of holding up my end of the relationship. My Dad used to say “Go the extra mile, what will it hurt?” With Tim I never found out.

So I went to Tim’s wake. I rode down there with Jim (another guy I have known for a long time). It was so crowded we couldn’t get in to the funeral home. I was glad to see that. Tim deserved it. So a couple of us went uptown (or downtown Belle Plaine if you prefer) and had a beer. We talked of Tim, our kids, our parents (living and deceased), and the “glory days.”

The next day I made a few phone calls, wrote a few letters and promised myself that I would do a better job of staying in touch. After all, I only have fifty years to get the job done.

Summer Vacation (October 2nd, 2007) Minneapolis Star-Tribune

What I did on my summer vacation: My wife and I took our two adult children, Jennifer and Nathan, on a trip to North Carolina. Why North Carolina in the summer time? Free airline tickets and the prospect of enjoying a heat index where it becomes possible to spontaneously combust.

Our flight left Minneapolis at 6:00 am – which meant I had to get my family to the airport at 4:00 am to get through security because at that hour I may be mistaken for a terrorist – which meant we had to get out of bed at 2:00 am. This made me wonder why I should even go to bed. You know how it is before a trip; you can’t fall asleep because a thousand thoughts are spinning in your head – such as the alarm may not go off, or you will probably forget to do something like putting air in the tires or packing enough socks.

Trying to get through airport security is an exacerbating experience. You start by empting your pockets; then you remove your shoes including any lifts, inserts or odor eaters and next you remove your belt. Then while holding your pants up (so you don’t raise the threat level to obscene) you shuffle through the Star Trek teleporter so that they can see through your clothes and your remaining dignity.

The gate for our plane was inconveniently located on the other side of the terminal – somewhere in Wisconsin I think. When we got on the plane I asked the flight attendant if they had a tool set I could use to remove the seats in front of me. I am only slightly taller than the average man but I have discovered that my blood will circulate better when my legs are not tucked under me like a flamingo for several hours. When the tool set did not arrive I tried to stretch my legs in the aisle, but the flight attendant requested that I store them under the seat with my carry on. For this I was rewarded with a pre-packaged cookie the size of an oyster cracker and some ice splashed with cola for color.

We landed in Charlotte and for the next week we drove from one end of North Carolina to the other, and then back again. It is a beautiful state with the Blue Ridge Mountains on the west side, and the Outer Banks on the east end. In between are enough Mobile Homes to give North Carolina the #4 spot in the U.S. for homes of this type. South Carolina ranks #1 and Minnesota is #42 (U.S. census). It was like a very large KOA.

For the return flight I was fortunate enough to hear the ticketing agent announce her request for volunteers willing to switch seats for those along the exit rows. The exit rows are the third most coveted seats on the airplane; only slightly lower than first class and those near the bathroom. These seats provide enough leg room so that by closing your eyes you can imagine that you are seated in second class – or maybe third.

Ever since September 11th I find myself studying the other passengers on the plane and categorizing them: He looks like he could be Baptist? But is it just an act, and what Bible translation is he carrying? What about the women in the traditional Amish head coverings and dresses? Are they allowed to fly or will they force the pilot to taxi the plane the entire trip? Can we trust these Catholic Nuns? Who knows what they have hidden in the deep recesses of their secret sleeve pockets? Next time I may drive.

Privacy (September 18th, 2007) Minneapolis Star-Tribune

When I was kid, my friends and I were always mindful about who might be watching us. The worst person (besides your father) to catch you doing something you shouldn’t be doing was the person who went to your church. Because not only would they report you to your folks, they would bring you before the elders of the church who would brand you a vandal with a Scarlet V forever more. Anyway, we never did anything that horrible.

Even though my behavior has improved a great deal over the years I am still careful – someone may be watching. Shakespeare wrote “All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women are merely players.” (I looked it up.) Andy Warhol said “In the future everyone will be world-famous for fifteen minutes.” Welcome to The Big Show where you may become the talk of the town.

You cannot escape it – you are on stage. There are millions of cameras ready to take your picture to make you famous, whether you like it or not. Whether you’re speeding along an interstate, or rolling through a red light, there is a camera waiting to capture the moment. Or perhaps you are a Little League Baseball player, – and to give the opposing team something to remember you by - you spit in your hand before your shake their’s. Relax they are only kids - my friends and I did worse. With roaming packs of cell phone cameras prowling about for prey there is usually one ready to strike with their lens to transform the innocent to the infamous, and the sinful to the singled-out. I mourn the loss of privacy. I do think that there are some things better left private.

I have never completely embraced the idea of fully utilizing the porcelain convenience of a public restroom. I prefer to take care of business in a more private place. But, should I ever find myself in a situation where time and distance were not at my disposal, I will most certainly concentrate on keeping my shoes from tapping and my hands to myself, lest my actions be misinterpreted. It’s amazing what you can get arrested for these days. I have a friend who believes that we are all but a six-pack away from doing just about anything – which of course would wind us up on the evening news.

In Oregon, two seventh grade boys were arrested, shackled, strip-searched and jailed for five days for slapping two girls’ butts on “Slap Butt” day at their school. Now I certainly don’t think we should make “Slap Butt” day a sanctioned holiday where the Post Office closes, but really should it be a capital crime? I know twelve and thirteen-year-old boys do stupid things – I was one (it seems like just a few years ago). It seems the girls were also participating in this activity. Although, this may not excuse it; it does help explain it.

We are at risk of becoming the unsuspecting stars of our own reality TV show; similar to the character played by Jim Carrey in the movie “The Truman Show,” but with one difference - we will not be able to escape the stage by walking through a door. Was Allen Funt, the host of the old TV show “Candid Camera” a prophet? What will life be like in the future? Will there be camera free zones? Will businesses ban guns and cameras on their premises? Sure, Big Brother is watching, but its Little Brother who has the cell phone camera and access to Youtube. Wait a minute, doesn’t that kid go to our church?

Gravel Roads (August 11th, 2007) Minneapolis Star-Tribune

I live on a gravel road. Now as with anything, there are both benefits and detriments associated with such an arrangement. I could prattle on about the poetic life of not only taking the road less traveled, but actually living on it. On Sunday mornings I can walk across the road to grab the newspaper, scan the front page, look at the comics, and not worry about being in the obituaries on Monday because I was hit by a truck on Sunday. Kids – don’t try this at home - let your parents do it.

But, alas there is also the matter of dust. Every August when the drought warnings are at their highest, even the lightest rural traffic on the road in front of our farm can raise a dust cloud reminiscent of the 1930’s. In addition to the dust, the uneven rhythm of the road surface can prematurely age an otherwise sound vehicle. This bone rattling country road has even caused me to part with a classic car just to preserve the car and my sanity. At least I won’t have to keep it clean anymore – which is nearly impossible out here in the hinterlands.

I can tolerate the dust, and the loss of a great car – but what I cannot stomach is selfish, short-sighted stupidity. When did our rural roadways and ditches become the dumping ground for the great unwashed and unwanted? When I was a kid (here we go again) we had a national campaign against littering. Back then the fast-food throw away wrapper had just entered the scene, and apparently people saw nothing wrong with tossing them from their windows at 70 mph. I believe this attitude was turned around when a Native American was shown in a commercial shedding a tear over the litter strewn across the fruited plain. Now perhaps the moment has passed for using that symbol in an ad campaign – but the emotion still exists. We can not use our rural landscapes as the dumping ground for discarded debris. I can lend a tear for the ending of that horrible habit.

Along the quiet rural roads I have discovered among other household items, a toilet (without the furry seat cover), an aquarium with the fish long flushed down (see previous item), and a couch that had been worn out by too many mind-numbing hours watching the latest realty TV show - Trading Trash.

It wasn’t that long ago that when you needed a new washer and dryer you plopped down the $499.89 – if the price is right (Bob Barker – we’re going to miss you) and they hauled your old stuff away as part of the deal. Nowadays the people who sell appliances may have to charge for such a luxury. I understand that – they have to pay to get rid of them too. So instead of digging a little deeper in their pockets, some folks would rather dump their dishwasher in the ditch along with their dirty dishes.

There are alternatives: local municipalities have clean-up days where you can dispose of your unwanted items (large or small), and some enterprising folks will even accept used appliances for the scrap metal.

Maybe if the price of gas keeps rising it will become too expensive to load up the truck for a trip to the country. Or maybe once we get done rounding up all the criminal smokers in our state we can pass one more law. A $10,000 dollar fine (or tax, or user-fee if you’d rather) for the first offense of illegal dumping, and for the second offense their yard gets turned into the city dump for a month.

Graduation Parties (July 24th, 2007) Minneapolis Star-Tribune

Well that’s it. The graduation party season is over – no more eating in garages. We attended our last one on July 8th. The season runs for at least two months, and during that time you can expect to consume enough sandwiches and potato salad to supply a quaint country church with a nice basement style lunch. I prefer the dessert table. Much to my family’s embarrassment – I always check out the desserts before I grab anything else. Sometimes I will even do this before I greet the host (or the graduate in this case). I’m a much better guest when I’ve had something to eat. Personally, I lean towards the bars with oatmeal and chocolate – the kind that could make Jenny Craig fell off her own diet.

My reasoning is very simple - I’m just not sure I want to spoil my appetite by eating some of the variety meats that are offered. After a couple dozen parties I found myself actually smelling the food before I agreed to put it on my plate. “What’s this stuff?” I would whisper to my wife. “Do I like it?” “Just take some and quit smelling everything,” was her reply as her eyes darted about to see if anyone was staring more than usual.

We attended one party where for the first five full minutes no one looked familiar. I did my usual dessert table inspection, but I couldn’t help but feel the stares of the other guests who wondered who the strangers were. I suggested to Rhonda that we drop the card in the card box, grab a sandwich, some water, maybe a bar or a brownie, some cake and hit the road before we were outed as party crashers. Just as we were making our escape the mother of the graduate recognized us and offered me a plate. “I already have a plate,” I assured her – but she was rather insistent that I place the cake on a plate instead of in my hands.

The party we had for our graduate was a rather nice affair. I say this only because I have the ability to screw up any social situation - but not this time. I was on my best behavior.
I insulted only a few of the guests and I didn’t fight with anyone. I had run enough extension cord throughout the farm to reach the sub station at the bottom of the hill. I found out that it takes a great deal of electrical amperage to power all the crock pots and roasters that are necessary to have a graduation party.

We attended a few dozen parties (or so it seems). My wife made a slight error in judgment when during conversation at one of the parties she let slip how many parties we had been invited to. People were a bit put-off by what they perceived as boasting. Rhonda tried to explain that she was merely remarking how busy we were. They didn’t buy it. I had no idea it had become such a competitive affair. I quickly changed the subject to something more neutral – The Pope’s current position on gays in the military and how it was affecting the war in Iraq. A friend of mine predicts that soon your high school graduates will be registered at Target for your gift giving convenience.

One of the invitations we received had a line that perplexed me. Right below the picture of the graduate was “Any questions? Call us at _____.” I wanted to call them and ask “Who else will be there?”, “Is there a dress code?”, and “Before we agree to come - tell me about the desserts.”

Broken Fences (June 19th, 2007) Minneapolis Star-Tribune

I have a supply of fence posts and rails that I keep in the barn for special occasions, and it seems that several times a month there’s a special occasion. I’ve often told my wife we should call our place The Broken Fence Farm.

I have a lot of experience fixing fences. I have a fencing tool that combines a hammer, pliers, wire cutter and a finger pincher in one convenient package. I use this to impress my urban friends. I once tested the strength of a gate I had recently hung by driving an old ford tractor with bad brakes through it. The metal gate survived. The wood post, which supported the gate, did not.

The current special occasion is my son’s high school graduation reception. There will be many people walking through the front gate to wish my son well in his new adventure, and for this I am trying to make the place look like somebody cares. But I must tell you it is hard.

It’s not that hard to fix a fence, which is fortunate for me as God did not bless me with the handyman gene (but after almost forty-eight years I’ve learned to live without it). What makes this current diversion most difficult for me is the stinging realization that I am getting both the farm and myself ready to say good-bye. “A dragon lives forever, but not so little boys,” so wrote Peter Yarrow.

You’d think that I would be used to this sort of thing by now. My darling daughter graduated from high school four years ago, left for college, and graduated – and through it all I survived. And, besides - I’ve had 19 years to get ready for this.

The highlight of my summers growing up in Belle Plaine was Bar-B-Q Days. Dad would always have a roll or two of ride tickets for us kids to use at our leisure. When I was about twelve or thirteen I remember getting a new shirt for my birthday a couple weeks before the carnival came to town. I saved it for the opening night of the fair.

Even though the carnival was set-up across town from our house, you could hear the fun that people were having from a mile away. I walked to the park that night feeling pretty cool in my new shirt. It was a beautiful summer evening – a bit warm but not too hot. My friends and I spun ourselves dizzy on the tilt-a-whirl (before its official status), rode the Ferris wheel - where from the top we could survey the entire town, and tried to stay out of trouble until we parted ways at a few minutes before midnight.. That evening as I lay in bed drifting in and out of sleep, with the breeze blowing through the screen, I could still hear the carnival. Every summer I go back to Bar-B-Q days searching for that magical feeling I experienced in 1972 – but it’s gone.

I’ve learned that most changes come uninvited and unannounced. You don’t always know when the last time has come and gone and that special moment becomes only a memory.

No fence I have ever put up kept anything home for long. Birds fly, dogs jump, goats climb and children grow up and leave. That’s just the way it is. I know that fences won’t keep a child at home, they were never meant to. The boundaries established at home are put there to provide protection and direction. So hopefully the posts I have set will guide him on whatever road he chooses.

And Nathan – just so we’re clear, the gate will always be open.

Bruce (June 5th, 2007) Minneapolis Star-Tribune

Over the years I’ve owned more than my share of lawn mowing equipment. It’s not because I am mechanically inclined – I am not. It has more to do with indecision and my quest to find the perfect machine. My inventory has included a tractor with 30 horses underneath the hood, a 72 inch mowing deck and a hydraulic wing with another 60 inches of cutting width. The friendly folks from the Department of Homeland Security confiscated it in the interests of public safety. I think the Smithsonian has it now.

One warm morning during our first summer on the farm I was pushing a lawn mower. Now that on its own is not unusual, but a mower with 19 inch cut can take all season to finish the job of cutting a large lawn in the country. I would have used the riding mower that I had at the time - but it would not start (I don’t know why and frankly I no longer care). So there I was pushing my non-self-propelled mower into the second hour of a sure to be five-plus hour job, when I looked up to see a man on a bicycle.

My first thought was “Good grief, can’t he see I’m busy?” but then I reconsidered and I did the polite thing and turned the mower off. “No, no. Turn it back on,” he commanded over the cries of the dying mower. Perhaps he was thinking of a modern version of Tom Sawyer and the whitewashed fence. I certainly was more than willing to let him have his turn at mowing my lawn.

After I got the mower started again (one pull mind you) I walked over to the stranger to introduce myself. But before I could say anything he lay his bike down, walked right past me and over to my mower. He bent down next to it and pulled a screw driver out if his pocket. With a few quick turns of his magical screwdriver the mower began to run with a new spirit. I didn’t even know that it needed to be fixed, but it no longer spit and sputtered. It sounded like a new mower (not that I ever had a new mower). Before I could thank him and offer him some liquid rewardment (a word which was coined by one of my kids when they were young meaning the opposite of punishment), he hopped on his bike and rode off into the distance, or at least back home.

Now I fully expected someone to walk up behind me and ask “Who was that kind stranger?” where I would have replied “I don’t know, but I wanted to thank him.” But all that happened was me yelling as he rode away “What, couldn’t you stand listening to it anymore?” He just shrugged his shoulders and kept pedaling.

It wasn’t too long after that where I got to meet him. Bruce is without a doubt a gift from God. I have often been outside losing a war with an internal combustion engine when Bruce mysteriously shows up. Sometimes he even drives over. Its always the same – I am outside either trying to start an engine, or just fighting to keep it running, when his keen ear alerts him to my plight. As soon as Bruce reaches for his screwdriver I know all will be well.

But I must admit I do feel a bit insecure with him in the neighborhood. Occasionally I will be foolishly attempting a repair on my own when my wife will casually ask “Why don’t you call Bruce?” Doesn’t she know? You don’t call Bruce – he just shows up.

Butchering Time (May 15th, 2007) Minneapolis Star-Tribune

Fine – I admit it. I live in Hypocrisy, just up the road from Denial and Materialism. I enjoy eating chicken. I just don’t like to kill them. But I am consistent. I wear leather from animals I did not hunt, I eat food from fields I did not tend, and I live in a house I did not build. I’ve tried to do all of those things and found I just don’t like them.

Very few people keep chickens for pets. I have found that chickens just don’t respond that well to affection. People generally raise chickens for three reasons: The eggs, the show (4-H) or the meat. On our little farm we’ve done all three.

I like the eggs – ask anyone who’s had farm fresh eggs and they’ll tell you there is nothing better. I have even enjoyed the poultry barn at the Scott County Fair - although only for a few minutes. But to be involved in the butchering process of chickens is an experience best left to anyone else but me. Oh I’ve done it – I just can’t recommend it.

When you process your own chickens its best to wear disposable clothing (including shoes, gloves, goggles and hats) because it will be the last time you will want to touch them. You also have to be careful that you don’t burn the barn down when you build a fire to heat the water. The water is used to loosen the feathers so that they come off with minimal effort. You have to be careful you don’t heat the water too much or dip the chickens too long or scalding will occur (the skin falls off). Its not exactly water-boarding, but the chickens are dead before they hit the water anyway.

Not all the chickens in the coop are taken the same day. In matters such as these I leave the selection of the condemned to my wife. To demonstrate some compassion I threw the chickens some extra grain for their last meal. As I chased the birds around the barn yard with a large net I sang that old blues tune “There ain’t nobody here but us chickens.” This was meant to calm them, but instead it only annoyed them.

I had learned to do this unspeakable task as a child. One year my father decided it would be a good idea to butcher some chickens. The fact that we lived in town did not slow him down. It was the job of my brother and me to sit on the metal tub while the head-less chicken flopped around. We, being curious young boys, would always have to take at least one peek before the noise subsided. It was there on Church St. in 1966 when we learned first hand what it meant to “run around like a chicken with its head cut off.” “Catch it,” my father yelled to us. But watching the chicken run without its head froze us with fear. The job of catching the running dead fell to my Dad, who chased the chicken while holding an axe in his hand. The memory still terrifies me.

The fire had been heating the black cauldron for about twenty minutes and the water was just beginning to boil. I let it cool a bit. As I readied myself for the ending of a chicken’s life I thought how little has changed in hundreds of years. We still heat the water like they did in Macbeth, we still cut the chickens heads off with a sharp knife and we still let gravity assist in the process. The only modern convenience used is a plucking machine that, if you’re not careful, will rip the bird right from your hands and fling it into the neighbor’s yard.

I brought the lifeless birds to my wife for the final cutting process. I then slipped off my stained clothing and threw them in the fire. I was done.

Official State Silliness (April 24th, 2007) Minneapolis Star-Tribune

I recently read an article in the March 30th edition of The StarTribune. It detailed the efforts of a presumably well-intentioned but misguided legislator from Fairbault. In an attempt to either demonstrate her worth as a legislator, or to please the powerful amusement ride lobby, Patti Fritz – a state representative of the DFL persuasion, has found an opportunity to fritter away more taxpayer money by introducing a bill to make the Tilt-A-Whirl the official amusement ride for the state of Minnesota. If she gets her way we may all be required to whirl ourselves sick.

To be clear – the Tilt-A-Whirl is a fine example for an amusement ride. I like the sound of the click clack, click clack it makes as it twists and twirls around. It has remained unchanged and predictable in a world that doesn’t offer much of either. And with all of the technological advances in the past several decades- it is still operated by just one guy moving a couple levers. I have ridden in the Tilt-A-Whirl, the Scrambler, the boats, and the cars. But for lately all that spinning just leaves me feeling a bit woozy. Now I just enjoy snappy conversations with my old friends at Bar-B-Q days in Belle Plaine.

This little legislative league Rep Fritz belongs to has a tradition of proposing inane bills such as this. Over the years there have been no less than fourteen different bills debating the merits of the White-tailed deer over the Eastern Timber Wolf as the official state animal. I say let the animals fight it out.

Twenty years ago an argument ensued over whether to name Schell’s or Cold Spring as the official state beer. Now I ask you – why didn’t they consider Hamm’s? It may have saved the brand. There was an even a bear associated with the Hamm’s label. We could have had the state bear drinking the state beer.

Before we get too far ahead of ourselves let’s slow down and consider the past. Amusement parks have a grand history in Minnesota. Aren’t we at risk of offending Valley Fair by not consulting them? How will this honor the memory of the legendary Excelsior Amusement Park or Como Park? As long as we are legislating official fun what’s next - will it be cotton candy or the latest trick on a stick for the official state fair food?

Yes, I am aware that the Tilt-A-Whirl and Rep Fritz share a common home town (hey, I read the papers). But doesn’t Fairbault also have the Woolen Mills and the State hospital? What’s next on her agenda? I think we need to check her to-do-list.

In the article written by Chuck Haga Rep. Fritz noted that she has received some negative feedback. Apparently people are disappointed with the legislature for not addressing issues of a more pressing nature - such as lowering taxes and paying teachers more. “There’s a lot of anger out there.” Fritz said. I am not angry Rep Fritz. I just don’t think you completely understand what you were elected to do. To paraphrase Jerry Seinfeld – You know how to get elected; you just don’t know what to do once you are elected.

I have an idea for a new law. When the serious issues have been debated and voted on, when our elected officials can no longer find any more money to extort from their constituents, send them home before they get silly and start giving official status to snack cakes and socks. I wonder will people be allowed to smoke on our official state amusement ride?

Riding Lessons (March 27th, 2007) Minneapolis Star-Tribune

There are many reasons to move from one house to another: a job change, eminent domain, global warming, and horse riding lessons. Let me speak to the less obvious one. About fifteen years ago my wife and I attended a fund raiser for a local politician ( I’m not going to tell you which one because that would lead to all sorts of prejudicial thoughts). Because of our attendance we were eligible for the door prize. We didn’t win the door, but we did win free horse riding lessons. Politics has its consequences. We re-gifted this prize to our daughter, who I think was eight at the time.

The lessons went quite well. The horses responded to her and she was comfortable with them. “She’s a natural.” How long has she been riding?” were some of the comments I heard from spectators. But the one that changed my life was “You need to buy her a horse.” Well now, this was something to consider.

At that time we were living in a old house where the neighbors frowned upon things that make a country house a farm - things like letting your grass grow long, or sharing your yard with goats, geese, and horses. I, like most fathers, was, and continue to be tightly wound around my daughter’s smallest finger. So we moved.

The horse we bought for her was a tall, proud, seventeen year old Arabian mare named Fergie. Firey would have been more appropriate. She never liked me. The previous owners had trained her to respond to voice commands – everyone but mine. I thought maybe Fergie just needed a companion to relax her.

I answered an ad that read “Free horse to a good home.” Even though the free goats didn’t exactly work out, I was willing to try again with a horse. Forio (his real name) was an elderly horse who needed a retirement home. His current owners had enjoyed his company for all of his twenty-eight years. Forio had won dozens of ribbons at horse shows over the years and now he just needed a quiet place to rest. So they were willing to let us have him for a while with a couple conditions: He was not ours – we were only borrowing him, and nobody over one hundred pounds was allowed to ride him. Although Forio was no longer suited for the hard trail rides, he was quite willing to let my five year old son sit on his back and play cowboy.

Fergie and Forio hit it off immediately. Fergie liked to boss Forio around and he was quite willing to let her. She would gobble the grain out of her feed bucket first and then push him away so she could eat his grain as well. Where Forio was like an old dog that would lay quietly at my feet, Fergie was like a temperamental cat that would scratch (or kick) me if I got too close.

I made that mistake only once. I had a nightly practice of putting the sheep inside the barn to avoid providing food for the coyotes. One particular evening Fergie had adopted the sheep as her own. She refused to let me near them by positioning her self between me and the sheep. I, being a slow learner, kept at it until I heard the distinctive sound of a hoof whizzing past my ear. I wisely stopped to consider the situation. I walked to the barn and grabbed a bucket of grain to distract her. I also put on a football helmet with a full face mask. Who did she think she was dealing with – an old dog?

Shovels and Tractors (February 20th, 2007) Minneapolis Star-Tribune

Lately I have been reminded what it takes to live in rural Minnesota. You have to have snow removal equipment in addition to a rusty shovel or two. Everyone (even my mother) owns a shovel that they use to move some snow around. These come in several sizes and styles. There is the back breaking, short handled grain scoop. This implement can hold enough snow to make a small car disappear until April with this just a few shovels. There are metal shovels that are virtually worthless because the snow just slides off the flat shiny square – they have a Charlie Brown quality to them. There are those that are shaped like a small plow when you just want to push instead of shovel. I have also noticed the ones with the S curved handle that are supposedly easier on your back – that assumes of course that you leave it leaning against the wall of the garage.

But, if you have a large driveway, or a long sidewalk – you need some horsepower. As is my style – I like to experiment with various scenarios. I have however resisted hanging a plow on the front of my pick-up truck – it always seemed like an advertisement for work that you didn’t want - such as plowing everyone’s driveway in a five mile radius.

When we bought the hobby farm I obtained a tractor at an auction - because I thought if you have a barn you should have a tractor. It was a 1943 John Deere A that just about killed me. It was a big as a circus elephant with a narrow front that made me think I was riding a large tippy tricycle. To start it required spinning a large flywheel with one hand while pushing the starting button with the other. This usually failed to start it on the first seventy-three tries. By then I had lost all feeling in my left arm and was ready for the insane asylum.

On the rare occasion when it did start - which was usually preceded by a visit from Bruce the mechanically inclined neighbor – I would almost freeze to death. As I sat up in the tractor (approximately ten feet in the air) I was exposed to all of nature’s fury. If there was a wind, I would catch every bit of it. After a few hours of mixing snow, gravel, grass and dirt into unsightly piles purposely placed around the yard, I would back the tractor into the barn. With limbs as stiff as boards, I would fall to the barn floor frozen, and then walk like a wooden man to the house where I would bathe in hot chocolate.

I replaced that with another piece of equipment. This gem was a 30 year old skid loader that I purchased from a friend of mine in the landscape business. For the first few years it seemed to do a tolerable job, but then things started to go out on it. I spent the necessary time and money on it over several years until I had just about run out of both. I finally broke down (as was the style of the tractors) and purchased a new piece of equipment. I can now attach the bucket and plow to the tractor, start it – do my snow removal routine – and park it in the barn (I still fall frozen to the floor, though not as far). Although, I do all of this in less time that it took me not to get the other tractors started, I still miss the struggle – it helped keep me warm.

Geese (December 20th, 2006) Minneapolis Star-Tribune

One Saturday morning when I was fixing fences three geese waddled down the driveway towards the barn. These geese were of a domestic variety, often seen on farms. The County Fair had just ended a week ago so I thought perhaps these three had become lost after the midway shut down and the poultry barn had been cleared out – but that was several miles away, a long way for geese that did not fly. No – someone had probably dropped them off at our place: “Three geese to a good home?” No thanks - I had learned my lesson with the goats.

But these geese seemed pretty sure of themselves; they had a certain swagger in their waddle that impressed me. So I opened the gate to the barn yard, and with a little honk of appreciation, they waltzed right in. Now what? Realizing that I was involved with something that was clearly out of my league, I went to fetch my wife (a little hobby farm talk).

She had become somewhat of a poultry expert with her involvement in 4-H and the Scott County Fair over the last several years. I, on the other hand, had never found much of an interest in poultry as a field of study. When the hatchery catalogs come in the mail she will speak of New Hampshire Reds, Plymouth Rocks, Jersey Giants, Rhode Island Reds and chickens from other parts of the country. “Order whatever you want”, I frequently suggest, hoping my generosity will save me from a lengthy dissertation on the merits of chicken ranching for fun and profit.

“Those are geese,” she declared, “One male and two females.” I told you she was an expert. “I better call some of the neighbors and see if anyone is missing any geese,” she announced as she walked back to the house. We live in a part of Scott County where children and animals are allowed to roam freely, and that includes geese I guess. One morning I went outside to see a horse in the yard. My wife called one of the neighbors and they came and got him. So you see we have an established procedure we follow for such things.

Since I wasn’t sure how far the geese had traveled, or when the last time they had ate, I decided to give them some water and cracked corn. Again, to show their appreciation, they each gave me a honk or two as I entered the barn yard with the refreshments.

After about twenty minutes my wife came down to the barn. Apparently no one knew anything about these geese, but Donny (one of the neighbors) was willing to take them.
I was happy to let them go – geese are messy things, and I was growing tired of their constant honking.

Donny showed up in a car with his wife. Now, I’ll be the first to admit that I’m no expert in animal husbandry, or wildlife management, but I had my doubts with his choice of geese transportation. “They’ll be fine,” Donny said, “just help me corner them.” He caught the females and put them in gunny sacks in the trunk (not to worry, he lives only one-half mile away as the goose flies). The male would not go in the sack. So Donny grabbed the goose, hopped in the passenger seat and hollered to his wife to drive. They waved as they drove down the driveway, giving me a couple honks of appreciation.

Goats (November 21st, 2006) Minneapolis Star-Tribune

When people find out that I live south of Shakopee on a hobby farm the first question they ask is, “Do you have any animals out there”? “Yeah,” I say with some disdain, “A bunch of stupid chickens, pigeons, and anywhere between 4 and 10 cats, depending upon the time of year.”

My wife and I bought the place because we thought it would be a nice place for the kids to grow up. Our daughter is now 21, and our son is 18 – so I guess it was, because they did. The farm is only 5 acres, with an old house, a barn, and five other buildings. The first time my Dad, a former real farmer, saw the place he remarked, “Boy, the work out here just won’t quit.” He’s been gone a few years now – but every Saturday when I am working around the place I hear his voice reminding me how much work is involved with owning a hobby farm. That’s quite a name for it – “hobby farm.” I think it’s called that because when you own a hobby farm, you don’t have time for any hobbies.

Over the past fifteen years - my wife says it more like thirteen – (I have trouble with that whole time/space continuum thing), my family has provided a home for three dogs, dozens of cats, two geriatric horses, hundreds of mice (its actually more of an occupation than a voluntary arrangement), herds of sheep, too many chickens, some turkeys, geese, ducks, and pigeons. Oh yeah - and three goats that just about killed me.

We started with two goats. I had answered an ad that said “two goats to a nice home.” Hmm, O.K. The people were so happy to get rid of them that I should have suspected something. They told me that the goats were brother and sister, but it wasn’t too long after I brought them home that a baby was born (a kid, if you will). Isn’t that illegal? I don’t know – maybe the goat community tolerates such behavior.

Let me tell you about goats. They are nice enough - but they are impossible to contain. They regard a fence as nothing more than a minor challenge, a distraction from their otherwise normal day of worrying the sheep. I have heard them laughing their little goat laugh as they watched me reinforce a fence they had just got through the day before.
“Is that all you got Mr. Man?” I have witnessed them scale a fence as if it were an OSHA approved ladder. They can jump over fences with the skill of an African Gazelle.
They push on them until they find the weak spot that surely must be there – and then they walk through as if a gate had been left open for their enjoyment.

Well with three of them I just about lost my mind. The little one had springs instead of legs, and the male was always looking for an opportunity to use his horns on my back side. I finally got rid of them – Doctors orders. My blood pressure had risen higher than the fences I constructed in vain.

I took them down to the Sales Barn in Belle Plaine. I was not even interested in selling them to “a good home.” I just wanted them gone. I turned them over to the auctioneers and their staff. As I walked to my truck I heard hollering, cursing, and windows breaking. The goats had found a new challenge. I smiled and drove back to the farm. I had fences to mend.