Brother can you spare some time?

I am selfish with my time. Although I claim to be flexible and spontaneous, it is usually on my own terms. “No,” and “No thank you,” come quite easily from my lips. When I decline an offer or turn down a request, it often is because I think I have something better, something more important to do. Something I want to do.

Volunteering isn’t usually something on my to-do-list. I have however, agreed to help out from time to time, and when I do I am reminded how rewarding it is. For example, last weekend I helped out for two hours selling pop, water and barbequed beef sandwiches at Barbeque Days in Belle Plaine. Two hours, hardly a dent in the day but I haven’t had that much fun in a very long time. It’s not hard work, but I helped out my hometown and was rewarded with laughter, a chance to see old friends and a feeling of giving back to the community that has been such a big part of my life.

Two hours is a brief span of time. There are people who volunteer several hours every day, yet it’s not a contest. There is no shortage of opportunities to help. Nursing homes and hospitals need help, as do food shelves. Churches provide a wonderful service outside of government mandated aid – but they need help from volunteers. Your local library, the city you live and work in, the town you grew up in all need volunteers.

The Scott County Fair needs volunteers throughout the year, but especially during the week of the fair. This year the fair runs from July 27-31. There are still spots open for the Welcome Booth and People Mover drivers.

I have not worked in the Welcome Booth, as they are in need of friendly people and I am told I don’t smile enough, I have been a People Mover Driver, however. I think it may be the best job at the fair. For two hours you drive a golf cart around the fairgrounds moving people (hence the name) from here to there and back again. The riders are appreciative and chatty. They wonder what’s good to eat, fun to do, and interesting to see. My personal favorites are the 4H food stand, the Bluegrass Festival and the horses.

For more information on volunteer opportunities at the Scott County Fair call 952-492-2436 or go to www.scottcountyfair.org. And just so you know, I am on the Fair board and my wife works in the office, and we could use your help.

Life offers many truisms on the subject of sharing your time: The busiest people are the happiest. Giving is better than receiving. A helping hand is better than a good swift kick. Okay, maybe the last one doesn’t fit, but you get the point.

It’s not really a healthy hobby, but I often glance at the obituaries when I am reading the newspaper. It seems to me that with few exceptions the most successful people, the ones who had the fullest, most meaningful lives are also the ones who spent much of their time volunteering. I guess when your time is up, it’s better to have shared some of it.

Rock and Roll

There are some things in life you can always count on. Take rocks for instance. A rock, unless disturbed, will stay in one spot. In the first century, Pubililus said that, “a rolling stone gathers no moss.” I have never kept up the chase of a rolling stone long enough to test that theory, but it does seem plausible, as I know the reverse to be true.

About twenty years ago I placed some large rocks along a fence line to keep some animals in and others out. A large rock, strategically placed, will thwart the efforts of most burrowing animals. However, the determined ones will keep their nose to the ground until their goal is reached and the fence is breached. As is often the case on our small farm things change, animals come and go, and a different corner of the farmyard becomes the new fenced-in area.

About a month ago we created what we thought to be a secure area for the chickens to cavort and cackle in the cool of the day. They could, whenever the mood suited them, walk freely from the barn and through a tunnel, much like a downtown Minneapolis skyway, but without the crowds and expensive parking. Once the chickens exited the confines of the tunnel they would be free to scratch at the ground and eat whatever was thrown to them, such as fresh cut grass or vegetables past their prime.

I used cattle panels to make the sides of the cage rigid and chicken wire to make them feel at home. The top was covered with plastic snow fence webbing to keep out the drifts and riff-raff. What I hadn’t counted on was an animal digging underneath the fence to gain the prize on the other side.

One night I decided to check on the barn and see how everyone was faring. As I approached I could see a black and white creature, fully illuminated by the barn light, digging by the fence. Getting closer I could see it was a skunk. Never one to interrupt another creature hard at work, I retreated to the house to procure a tool to persuade the skunk to cease and desist its efforts.

Before departing, the skunk did what skunks do. Fortunately, I had anticipated this and took up a position ninety degrees to the side of its rear. The powerful stench filled the air as I escorted the skunk through the darkness to the back of the property and over (not under) a fence, where I was certain coyotes would find nothing objectionable with a skunk.

The next day I talked over plans to secure the fence (again) with my wife.

I went back behind the barn to the big rocks I had put in place two decades ago. There they were, just as I had left them. The rocks, resigned to their fate, had settled in comfortably along the fence line. Weeds and grass had grown up around them; even the earth itself had begun to swallow them whole to reclaim them as its own.

I spent the better part of a Saturday digging them up and prying them loose from the soil that had enveloped them. Using the bucket of my tractor I transported them to their new home along the chicken pen and gave them a new purpose – keeping the varmints outs. After I had placed the last stationary stone I felt secure knowing that I could count on these rocks. They were not going anywhere; they would be there again when I needed them. Oh, to be like a rock, steadfast and dependable.

Adjusting the Focus

The program I use to write these silly essays on my computer has a setting for viewing labeled, “Focus.” When selected, it removes all other items and icons leaving only a white screen littered by an increasing amount of black letters in what I hope to be a logical and pleasing arrangement.

It is a widely held belief that men cannot multi-task and are easily distracted. The combination of the two in one package is one of God’s great jokes. I was having a conversation a while back about this very subject with my daughter in the farm kitchen. I was carrying on about how most men can become easily distracted when, in mid-sentence, I stopped to read the open page of a newspaper that was directly beneath me on the counter. She smiled at me and shook her head in disbelief.

I was by myself in my office for the better part of two weeks last month when Kathy, my capable co-worker, took some well-earned time off. I would no sooner get started on one thing than another thing demanded my attention. Shifting my attention to the new immediate matter-at-hand I became interrupted by the phone, then the mail, then someone coming in, then a desperate dash to the bathroom. When I returned refreshed, I dove into the pile of papers only to find that it had somehow become deeper.

I try to keep a clean and tidy workspace, and that includes my writing table in my bedroom. I can confidently report that the old library table is just shy of 28 inches deep and a shade more than 48 inches wide. That’s kind of like saying, “twenty after two,” instead of, “two-eighteen,” when asked for the time. It’s close enough for most occasions.

Sitting on the table is an hourglass that empties itself every half-hour. It occupies part of a corner shared by a manual typewriter with a hat. I don’t know that the hat is the right accessory for the typewriter but it does keep the dust off. I keep the typewriter nearby to remind me of the past.  The hat is for when I want to look like a serious writer, or one who is not taking himself too seriously.

In the other corner is a hard cover of Strunk & White’s, The Elements of Style (Third Edition). I keep this close by so I don’t stray too far from the accepted path. On top of that are some small books that need to be completed in this lifetime.

The first one is titled, Dad, Share Your Life With Me . . .  As I glance at the randomly opened page that says, “Tell another memory about a parade,”  I think about the red Chevette that I drove in the high school homecoming parade my senior year when I got stopped by the police.

Another little book called, Grandpa, Tell Me Your Memories . . . has a page asking, “Were you ever chased by some animals?” That reminds me of the time I jumped through the open window of the family station wagon when a Siberian husky was closing in on me at an egg farm.

The third one, titled, “A Father’s Legacy, Your Life Story In Your Own Words, asks on one page, “What did you want to be when you grew up?”  Certainly, not an insurance agent.”

In the middle of the table, directly in front of me is my computer, where I try and write something worth reading. Now where was I?