Friday, October 28, 2011

It's all about latitude

I’m willing to adjust my attitude from time to time and try new things. I took off for a weekend this month just to try and do geocaching. If that looks like a made up word to you, well you’re right it is. It combines two word: geo (Greek), meaning “of the earth,” and cache (French), which is a temporary hiding place.

Geocaching incorporates concepts of older games with modern technology. It has elements of “Hide and Seek,” a scavenger hunt, and the old “you’re getting warmer… warmer…colder…warmer…warmer” game of finding a hidden something or other. In geocaching the clues to find the hidden object are longitude and latitude coordinates, such as N 43 (degrees) 31.577’and W 92 (degrees) 30.946’.

Using global positioning satellites or GPS technology the seeker enters the coordinates into a GPS device. Many people use an expensive portable device that gives directional help, but a smart phone can also be used if you are not smart enough to remember bring the expensive toy with you. Either one lets you know if you are getting closer (warmer) or further away (colder).

There is no shortage of places to mess around with geocaching. Hundreds of thousands people participate in it every year all over the Earth (or geo if you prefer). So it was just a matter of time before I was forced to check it out.

Up until recently I was able to stay in the truck while others scurried about trying to locate hidden treasure. But this time an entire weekend was devoted to geocaching in Minnesota state parks.

When the idea was first presented for my consideration I carelessly said, “I don’t care where I go, I care where I stay.” You see I like traveling I just don’t like camping. I thought if that message was communicated clear enough I could have a relaxing weekend spent in a hotel somewhere reading and relaxing while others chased wild geese. Once again I didn’t ask enough questions.

There are over 70 state parks and recreation areas in Minnesota and each one has at least one hidden treasure waiting to be found using GPS technology. The goal is to find the official cache at all the parks within a certain time period. A local teacher and his wife were the first ones to complete that task in Minnesota.

The modern-day treasure hunters collect stamps, patches and pins when a certain number of these state-sponsored caches have been found. My daughter Jennifer and her husband Adam have taken up the task of visiting all 73 state parks. So recently she and her mother conspired to involve the whole family.

In two days, traveling over 450 miles, we stopped in at eight state parks; fun for the whole family. We shared trails with horses, climbed hundreds of stairs, scampered up rocky cliffs, traversed ravines, forded streams, explored caves, island hopped and made our presence known in a ghost town.

I think the state of Minnesota is using geocaching as a device to introduce people to the state parks. I was at parks that I had never heard of. All eight parks that we visited were beautiful and each had its own unique identity. I can see why some people like this kind of thing.

Geocaching wouldn’t be my first choice, but you have to participate in the activities that are important to your friends and family. My global position is not one of resistance to change and trying new things. I may not always like it but I try to have fun with it. It’s like what Jimmy Buffet said.

It’s these changes in latitudes, changes in attitudes
Nothing remains quite the same
With all of our running and all of our cunning
If we couldn’t laugh we would all go insane

Friday, October 21, 2011

Dad's Chair

I guess I’m not much of a furniture person. It doesn’t matter if it matches or looks right, but I need a chair. In most homes with a man in residence there is a special chair; his chair. There he relaxes after a hard day; from there he exercises his authority. Women may have their own chair as well, but they seldom sit in it; I’m not sure why. I guess it’s because they are too busy … doing stuff.

Therein lies the problem. Just because women don’t take the time to sit down, doesn’t mean that men won’t. I don’t think my wife, Rhonda, fully appreciates why I need a good chair to call my own. I didn’t realize this until a series of events unfolded in my house over the course of a couple days.

One of Rhonda’s friends brought over a chair she was no longer using. No harm there, as we have plenty of storage room in our buildings and I have extra tarps. I had almost forgotten about the chair when on the eve of the third day Rhonda had me come out to look at it.

Something about it didn’t sit quite right with me, but I couldn’t figure out what it was. The color was rather nondescript (as most colors are to me). At Rhonda’s urging I sat in it. It was comfortable enough, but it lacked something.

She asked if I needed help in carrying it to the garage. Did you catch it? Hidden within her question was also a directive: she wanted the chair in the garage and eventually the house. That was already decided. The offer to help me carry the chair was merely a ploy to advance her agenda. I let it slide.

I was able to carry it myself with little difficulty, which should have been a big clue as to why I wasn’t thrilled about this chair. The next step took very little time, but it was an important one. When the new chair came into the house it replaced my chair.

My chair – the chair from where I caught up with my papers, watched movies with my children, fell asleep, meted out justice, delivered wise counsel, and solved the problems of the day.

Well, it could be replaced I suppose, with the right substitute. My chair had become worn and the color had fallen out of fashion. When I sat down in my usual spot the shortcomings of this substitute became obvious. It certainly wasn’t too big, and it wasn’t just right. It had been built for either a child or a woman.

“This chair is too small,” I growled.

I should have noticed it before it came into the house – but without the proper perspective I didn’t realize how inadequate this new chair was. It was narrow and low and its arms were bony and weak. There was no way I could be the man of the house in this chair.

If a man’s home is his castle, then his chair must be his throne. I was at risk of being abdicated, overthrown. As far as I know, my father never had this problem.

Dad had his chair, and it was his whenever he wanted it. A simple look or a subtle gesture would displace anyone who occupied it. Often it didn’t match the carpet, the drapes or any piece of furniture in the neighborhood, but that didn’t matter.

It was positioned so that Dad could monitor both the TV and the outside world without moving his head. From the comfort of his chair he ruled.

“What are we watching?” “Quiet, I want to listen to the weather.” “Where are you off to?”

And when he fell asleep after a long day Mom would bravely touch him and say, “Why don’t you go to bed Tom?”

Dad wouldn’t have put up with such nonsense so I didn’t either. I got my old chair back. Except for my chair, furniture is really not that important to me, so does that make me a chairman?

Thursday, October 13, 2011

Until next year

I tilled the garden this weekend – not once, but twice. The first was to grind this year’s remains into the ground. The second time was to add about 10 bags of leaves to the soil. These leaves were special – you might even say imported. They were a gift from my daughter, Jennifer, who lives in town with her new husband Adam.

Growing up in the country Jennifer rarely had to rake leaves. Out here on the farm we use the mow and blow method: chop the leaves up with the mower and let the wind take them when and where it wishes. But that method of yard work is frowned upon in town, so she and Adam bagged up the leaves that had fallen on their yard and generously shared them with me.

When they had completed their end of the bargain I went to town and picked up the bulging bags. At home I quickly spread the leaves on the freshly cultivated soil. I had to hurry, less the gift to the garden would blow away to parts unknown.

Jennifer used to work the farm garden with her mother – now she has her own smaller plot in town. So this year I was a “husbandman,” an old term meaning farmer, gardener. So I helped my wife in the harvesting of tomatoes and carrots to empty the ground before the tillage. As the Lord says, “The harvest is plentiful, but the laborers are few.”

Before I modernized with a tiller powered by the tractor I used to have what is commonly referred to as a walk-behind tiller. But walking suggests a peaceful pastime, and that does not describe my former tiller. Instead it handled like a team of wild horses trying to escape. A rear leaning 45-degree stance was required to engage the tiller in battle. By the end of a leisurely day in the garden my forearms were like rocks, my back was shot and my legs quivered with fatigue.

But turning over soil has become an easy chore since I purchased an attachment for my tractor. I call it a tractor because that’s what it is, but Mary, Mary quite contrary, my tractor looks like a toy next to real farm tractors. So I guess I’m playing farmer.

True, I live in an old farm house and have a barn, but I am not a farmer – I do not possess their massive machinery or skills.

The farmers in the area are busy. Their trucks and tractors pulling wagons go back and forth on the normally quiet avenue. The combines with their bean heads raise dust in the fields and on the roads as they reap what they have sown. Soon they will come back outfitted to collect the corn. They will be gone soon, along with the 80-degree October days. I wave as they pass.

The 80-degree plus days in August are normal and expected, so I take them for granted and think about cooler times. But in this clime, those temperatures in October are rare and fleeting, so I soak up the sunshine as I go about my business. If I knew it was the last time I would see such warmth for six months or more I may treat the day differently.

I can find contentment in a day spent reading and writing, but as the old saying goes, “A man of words and not of deeds is like a garden full of weeds.” Land must be turned, garden hoses and pumps have to be drained and put away, and snow removal equipment must be made ready.

So I toil in the soil and make provisions for the cold. The garden has been put to bed and patiently awaits the heavy blanket of snow that will surely come. Till next year.

Thursday, October 6, 2011

It Stings

Buddy, the dog, doesn’t like bees; he tries to bite them. I don’t mind them; I understand their purpose: to pollinate and produce honey. I also know they can sting, but I accept that as part of the trade-off.

However, I am much less tolerant with wasps, hornets and other members of their swarm. I understand they are considered useful by those in the know, such as the University of Minnesota Extension office.

“Wasps are predators, feeding insects and other arthropods to their young…They are beneficial because they prey on many insects... Some wasps may become aggressive scavengers around human food… Nests that are near human activity can pose a potential problem. If there is a concern about stings, you should eradicate the nest.”

They suggest that you wait until nightfall to attack. One method is to “cover the nest with a large, heavy, plastic bag and seal it shut. Cut the nest from the tree and freeze it or let the bag sit in the sun, which will kill the wasps inside in a day or two. Use caution: there is more risk involved in this procedure than in spraying the nest.”

Uh-huh. It seems to me that if you were unsuccessful you have only made a bad situation much worse. If they were aggressive before, they are sure to have revenge on their minds now. I have trouble with zip-lock baggies so I am going to avoid that method.

I like spraying them with an insecticide from a safe distance of two yards (mine and my neighbors). I think someone should invent a predator drone for home use. They seem to be working very well in the “war on terror” or “overseas contingency operations” or whatever the phrase of the day is.

I would buy one of those to avoid getting stung. I think most people would. I also think most people want to avoid the sting of paying more taxes than is legally required of them. But, there are always exceptions.

For instance, Doug Edwards, a retired millionaire and former Google employee, was an invited audience member of a town hall meeting held recently in California. He asked President Obama, “Would you please raise my taxes?”

I agree, please raise Mr. Edwards taxes. But I don’t think he meant just his, because anyone who felt that they weren’t paying “their fair share,” has an easy solution. Simply send the government a check.

According to http://www.fms.treas.gov/faq/moretopics_gifts.html, a U.S. Treasury website, “Citizens who wish to make a general donation to the U.S. government may send contributions to a specific account called "Gifts to the United States." They even give you the address to make it easy.

Warren Buffet, a zillionaire doesn’t think it’s right that his tax rate is lower than his secretary’s. Well, I don’t think it’s right that his company, Berkshire Hathaway, has owed the IRS one billion dollars since 2002.

But don’t take my word for it. Various websites (Newsmax, The Huffington Post) are running a story that a group called Americans for Limited Government (ALG) has said that Berkshire Hathaway’s own annual report indicated the company is embroiled in an ongoing standoff over its tax bills. This was also included in an editorial in The New York Post.

I have talked to people who state that “they proudly pay their taxes,” or that “it’s their patriotic duty.” OK, is if this is true let’s raise the bar. How proud and patriotic do you want to be? At what level do taxes become too much?

I can imagine other requests from concerned citizens to follow: Please audit me, please seize my property, increase the assessed value of my home, draft me, arrest me, deport me, enslave me, take away my constitutional rights. Please take away my economic freedom.

When it comes to taxes I pay my fair share with as much pride and patriotism as I can muster. I am not stingy, but I’d like to know why there is this new intensity to pay more to the government, because if you take away the why I am left with a sting.