Thursday, June 30, 2016

Remembered on Father's Day

I remember both of my grandfathers.  Michael (known as Harry to his friends) was a funny Irishman, the other, Andrew, was a stoic Bohemian. Harry died too early in my life for me to get to know, and Andrew, who often said, “children should be seen and not heard,” became my friend when I was sixteen.

I had a summer job driving truck for the lumberyard in Le Center where he was living, and we often had lunch together at his house. I learned much about life that summer from a man born in 1885. The time I spent with Grandpa Kucera that summer stands out as some of the most important moments in my life, but I didn’t know it at the time.

I know it now. I am keenly aware of how important the bond is between grandfathers and grandsons. Fortunately, my daughter, Jennifer, recognizes this as well. Although I don’t ever remember wishing either of my grandfather’s well on Father’s Day in person or with a card, my grandsons gave me a card in addition to their greeting.

Micah, the two year old, told me more than once, “Happy Father’s Day Pa,” with his melodic voice stretching Pa into two syllables. Jonah, soon to be one, made some faces at me, mimicked my noises and reached for my glasses.

The card, pulled off-line from some web site, had fill-in-the blanks that my daughter read to her boys (with presumably Micah, who has a huge vocabulary, providing the word or phrase.)

The card started with, “Let me tell you about my grandfather.” Jennifer recorded Micah’s reply to “How old is Pa?” Micah thinks I’m nine years old. I can see how. Clearly I look older, but I often act much closer to his age.

Reporting on my wardrobe preferences, he apparently believes that I like to wear shoes. Doctor’s orders – a podiatrist once told me to never go barefoot, so I don’t  - even indoors (I keep an extra pair at my children’s homes).

When asked about my favorite food the answer was less certain. “He loves to eat peas – kind of.” That’s true; I can take them or leave them. Fresh in the pods or frozen are best. Canned peas should be banned.

According to Micah, my favorite sport is football. I’d rather watch hockey but if we’re going to play, I guess we’ll have to grab their mother and pick teams.

The only evidence he could provide on why he thought I was smart was “because he knows how to write some stuff.”  This is from a boy who doesn’t read the newspaper or books without pictures, but he does listen when I read my essays to his mother.

The activity listed that we like to do together is “going on the tractor and eating.” Right again, although not at the same time. Jonah is yet too young to ride on the tractor with me, but Micah thinks the tractor is for giving rides and pulling trailers. As far as eating goes, sharing bagels and eggs on a Friday morning ranks near the top of my favorite things to do.

As to what makes his grandfather happy, the answer given was “when I go to Mimi’s house.” Mimi is what Micah calls my wife, Rhonda, and he thinks the farm belongs to her. I’ll let him think it’s her house for now, but he’s right, I do like it when they come over.

His favorite thing about me is “playing and all the things.”  I can hardly improve on that, except I hope those two little boys will never forget me.


Friday, June 24, 2016

Neither a Hunter nor a Gatherer

I am neither a hunter nor a gatherer. To survive eons ago, a person had to be one or the other.  I live on an old farm, which at first pass would put me square in the field with the gathering group, but living on a farm does not make me a farmer, just as owning a gun does not make me a hunter. However, occasionally I find myself dancing between the two tribes.

I have an understanding with the predators that live in the woods behind my barn: I will not go searching for them in their home (the woods), and they will not come searching my home (the farm) for food and drink. I have no argument with those who hunt and fish; I just have never had an appetite for the activity, only the result. Presently though, I am in a battle with raccoons who have ignored my pleas to stay out of the barn. These masked marauders have no respect for boundaries.

I have been at war with these bandits ever since we moved out here more than two decades ago. They steal eggs and kill chickens. I have no tolerance for either of these hobbies.

I have never studied the ways of an animal in their habitat to learn their habits, but I do recognize their handy work. A fox is greedy; it will kill all the chickens and take them away one by one. A weasel is a barbarian; it will kill one bird after another over a period of days by removing their heads from their bodies. Possums will wander politely around inside the coop; they work the crowd as they try to locate their favorite hors d’oeuvres: eggs. Skunks will take eggs as well, but their tell-tail odor is unmistakable. A coyote will grab something to eat and run away rudely with its mouth full.  One afternoon I even came upon an Osprey who had flown in to enjoy chicken dinner in the barnyard.

Raccoons are unique: they can climb, they are intelligent and they are omnivorous, meaning they will eat almost anything. These past few days something has been eating eggs, a chicken and cat food. I think it tried to catch the cat too judging from the mess left behind – things were tipped over as if a chase had been conducted around the barn once or twice.

One night I relocated the cat to the garage and baited a live trap with cat food. The next morning an angry raccoon was waiting for me. Thinking I had solved my problem I let down my guard, and the next morning I found a similar sight: the cat feeder was emptied and tipped over and the water dish had become a bathtub with much splashing about. That night I set the trap again and the next morning I found it sprung and the animal gone – alive and well certain to return to torment me again.


Now I must gather my wits about me and hunt for a solution if my chickens are to survive and my cat to live in peace.

Friday, June 17, 2016

Up and Down

Pulled shades, closed curtains and drawn drapes have limited use in the country. The first light of the day comes through the window sometime after 5:00 and hits me square in the face. This is the time of year when I can lay in bed and have the sun wake me up. Although I can’t see very clearly at the hour, or really any hour without my glasses, it is a marvelous way to greet they day.

Chuck, a friend of mine, takes pictures of sunsets and posts them on-line for all to see. Every morning he gets out of bed before the chickens, and pigs too I suppose, to capture the brief moment. How he manages to find the time and motivation to do this day after day is beyond me.

As I lay in bed contemplating the day before me, the sun continues its assent. Is the day to be conquered or enjoyed? E.B. White said,  “But I arise in the morning torn between a desire to improve (or save) the world and a desire to enjoy (or savor) the world. This makes it hard to plan the day.” But you can’t lie there all day, so you get up and sally forth before its high noon.

Sunrises seem to take longer – almost all morning, whereas a sunset seems to happen very quickly – look sharp or you might miss it. Its brevity is what forces me to stop and take note. When we bought this farm twenty some years ago, Leo, the Australian caretaker, told us,  “The sunsets are fabulous here.”

Leo was correct, in as much as you have to find a spot to view the close of the day. At this time of the year the sunset is visible across the field to the northwest. Often I have paused my outside activities and walked behind the granary to witness the day’s grand finale’. The sprouting bean field stretches towards the woods on top of the river bluff offering a wide-open view. One night it occurred to me that a chair, properly positioned, could be put to good use. It is universally true that happy times are best shared, so if one chair is called for two would be better.

A couple inexpensive Adirondack chairs were purchased for what has become known as the Bluff Deck. My wife chose the name as it seemed as if we were on the deck of a cruise ship enjoying eventide.


Sunrise, sunset – no mistaking one for the other. It is one of the last remaining truths – the sun rises in the east and sets in the west. It is a standard; it is dependable and predictable.

Unlike the morning, when the day lies before us ready to planned for and acted upon, in the evening the day is a memory to be lamented and pondered over. Horace Mann wrote a fictional want ad: “Lost, yesterday, somewhere between sunrise and sunset, two golden hours, each set with sixty diamond minutes. No reward is offered, for they are gone forever.”

Rhonda and I lean back in our chairs and feel the breeze on our faces as it comes up from the valley, over the trees and across the field. The temperature has already begun to drop as the sun takes its final bow and the curtain drops.








Friday, June 10, 2016

In a Rut

“Call Before You Dig” is the reminder to get the underground utilities marked before you dig. Calling 811 can prevent a call to 911 by having someone come out to mark public underground utilities. This prevents damaging the utility lines and killing yourself in the process. However, it only works for lines buried by public facilities. Most lines buried for private use are not going to be located by a call to 811. So you still have to be careful and give some thought to where you are digging. I found out the easy way – which is usually better than the hard way.

I’m doing some digging around my house and the locaters came and painted the yard some nice colors with an encrypted message. I wondered why a gas line I knew was buried in the area was not marked, so I called the friendly folks at Gopher State One Call (811) to find out why.

According to the website (and the man on the other end of the call) privately installed gas lines, invisible fencing, electricity run to an outbuilding and sprinkler systems may not get marked by the locaters.

Several years ago we extended the gas line from the meter to power a piece of equipment. Even though the installation was professionally done, the fact that it was done privately and not by the utility company deems it outside the scope of the locaters.

It turns out I could have called the company that buried the gas line, and they would have located (possibly for a fee, whereas the 811 call is a free service). It was suggested that I get my hands on a metal detector to try and pinpoint the buried line. I immediately warmed to the idea – a man has to have the right tool for the job.

I found the buried gas line and marked it with some white paint from a spray-can. Not exactly by the book, but it got the job done. Soon my son, son-in-law and I began to turn the ground over. During our brief archeological expedition we found a cookie cutter, a key, three-fourths of a horseshoe for one-fourth of a horse, some metal milk bottle tops, various wires, springs, brackets and other miscellaneous metal that could not be identified. Indeed, we were digging up the past.

Occasionally, the shovel was rested and leaned on to examine the booty. Searching for metal reminded me of water witching (also known as dowsing or divining), except a metal detector has batteries and it’s looking for metal not water.  The detector drew some members of our digging party away from the original site, which is where most of the buried treasure was found.

There’s nothing glamorous about pushing a shovel into the ground, but it’s honest, hard work – often even necessary. It’s satisfying in that the evidence of the labor is right there in front of you; all are humbled as they bend to the matter at hand. We never dug far enough to reach China or rival the depth of the Mariana trench, but we did get our hands dirty. After a while the long-handled shovel was replaced with a garden trowel for more precise excavation and less scarring of the earth.

Before you start your own treasure hunt I caution you to think about what lies underground before you dig. As they used to say – “Can you dig it?” I don’t know, but you better call and find out first.




Friday, June 3, 2016

If The Shoe Fits

A couple weeks ago I wrote about hats, and this week I am cutting out the middleman and going right to shoes. Shoe sizes, among other things, aren’t as standard and predictable as I would like them to be. For instance, I have shoes that range in size from 9 ½ to 10 ½ and now 11. I have never been an 11. Of course, I have never been two hundred pounds or almost fifty-seven either.

It’s a game of numbers; the weights and measures that define my existence are gaining on me. Even though I dare not look back, I can feel the cold breath of infirmity and hear the footsteps of obesity right behind me.

I am toying with different methods of exercise in an attempt to arrest those numbers that I can control. Some people walk their dog, but I don’t have a dog. I used to play squash.  Then my squash partner got hurt and he and I began to vegetate instead. An exercise machine loses its appeal when the weather turns nice, and pedaling a bike can be dangerous (hence the need for a helmet).  

Last week I ran into a new store that I had heard about.  I wasn’t going to buy anything – I was just curious about the store and their method of finding and fitting the right shoe (as well as the left). River Valley Running, as the name implies, specializes in running shoes. Of course, you wouldn’t have to run in them, you could walk or just lounge in the shoes if you chose.

Lest you think that shoes designed just for running is too narrow of a fit for general-purpose living, please consider that Nancy Sinatra sang about boots that were made for walking. In addition, there are waders when people want to get right in there with the fish, dancing shoes (with or without the noisy metal taps), bowling, and golf shoes. There are hiking shoes, muck boots, steel-toed work boots and loafers (when you don’t feel like doing anything). There is even a tale of an indecisive elderly woman who took up residence in a shoe with her many children.

As I mentioned, I had no intention of buying running shoes, as I had not included running in my exercise options. I have never been interested in long-distance running; it was fine for other people, just not for me. Short sprints were my specialty – quick and to the point. Yet, I admire people who can run great distances and not tire, like those guys in the movie, “Last of The Mohicans.” They were in great shape.

When I was younger I could run like a horse, was often so hungry that I could eat one, and yet my girth never increased. Alas, those days are gone – I have to watch what I eat, the only running I do is to appointments, and I have had to re-cinch my belt.

I went to the running store, perhaps unconsciously hoping to outrun time and regain my youthful step. I was greeted by Sara, the attentive sales clerk, who seemed puzzled when I explained that I had no intention of becoming a runner, but rather was curious about the store.

In no time at all I was having my feet measured, my gait analyzed by video taping me running on a treadmill, and the inkblot impressions of my feet evaluated. Rorschach would have been amused with the images produced by my fallen arches.

In the end, I selected a comfortable red pair in a size 11. Now the trick will be to lace them up and start running to cut down my middle.