Hoosiered

We are in Indiana, safe and settled at my sister's house for the next few days.  Saw parts of three states today - left Wisconsin, spent far longer than planned in Illinois, and finally our Indiana destination.  Traffic was quite slow through Chicago so that lengthened our trip by at least a half-hour, but we drove out of the city without getting killed so that was a plus.

As we drove out of Madison this morning Daughter One said, in disbelief, "I can't believe we are really doing this."  I felt the same.  What we've talked about doing for several years is now in action rather than just in imagination.  It's been an exhausting two days, but with a good night's sleep ahead of us we've got three days to enjoy new activities while we explore a new region of our world.  Today we were able to take in a cousin's baseball game and top off our day with 4th of July fireworks (on June 30th) over one of Indiana's five lakes.  (side note:  My post tonight was going to be about the complete lack of water from central Wisconsin to here....but it's too late in the day for that.)  And we've avoided heat stroke...holy cow has it been hot!

So that's it for today.  I'm wiped out.  Many, many hours behind the wheel; many, many miles in heavy traffic.  Not sure what we'll explore tomorrow.....but you'll find out about it right here tomorrow night!

On Wisconsin!

Coming to you live from Madison, Wisconsin, with leg one of our journey over.  I'm sitting poolside while Daughter Three enjoys a quick swim after a long, hot afternoon on the road.  Air temp when we left home was 97 degrees....saw 98 for quite a while on the car thermometer.  With the dew point the heat index was roughly 243 degrees.  Once we got rolling and gave the air conditioner a chance to do its thing the ride was mostly pleasant.

So, Wisconsin.  If you love rolling hills and big woods (which I do) this is the state to drive through.  For the western two hours anyway.  It's comforting for me to see so much unspoiled wilderness - aside from the traffic screaming through the middle of it - when so much of our world seems dominated by the humans' existence.  I should have let Daughter One drive for a while so I could just sight-see, but I probably wouldn't have been able to tear my eyes away from the road while in the passenger seat.  Actually, I should have let all three of them take a turn driving so they'd have seen a little more of the scenery.  Between their screens and their books I'm not sure they saw much of the country we drove through.  I finally started giving a signal - barking like a dog...not sure why - when there was something extra special to look at.  Otherwise, heads down, eyes missing everything.

So we talked about that.  So much of life goes by unnoticed when heads are down, looking at the ground or more often anymore, screens.  My faithful readers will recall my own personal struggles with "head-down-itus" while hunting...but I'm working on that.  When I'm driving I have the opposite problem - head-on-a-swivel-trying-to-look-at-everything-itus.  Tomorrow I'll be more assertive about my travelin' companions doing the same.  It would be a shame for them to travel through three states for the first time and have no recollections of where they'd been.

Thankfully the first long drive of this trip ended with no problems along the way.....well, no big problems.  Phone map lady sent us flitting about the countryside northwest of Madison, telling us she was saving 15 minutes by doing so.  It probably would have been a lovely detour but for the fact the sun had already sank beneath the horizon.  However, as we drove through.....well, wherever the heck we were.....the girls (who could no longer see their books) were delighted by the fireflies dancing alongside us in the ditches and fields.  And wouldn't you know?  About the same time we started noticing the little flashers the song "Fireflies" cut loose on the CD that had been popped in a half-hour earlier.  This twist of timing also gave us the opportunity to discuss the difference between irony and coincidence, since the song playing while the bugs flashed was not ironic, contrary to my daughters' narrative of the moment.

Eventually, after about 17 backroads, we rolled into Madison, easily found our hotel....and were told their system booked us a room that wasn't available.  So they sent us next door to a nicer hotel, wiped away the charge, and told us to come back for breakfast in the morning.  Not irony, not coincidence....probably karma.  Pretty sure I did something decent this week to deserve a break.

Part one of this adventure is now history.  Time for bed and a decent night's sleep so we can complete the drive tomorrow.  Ugh, tomorrow - Chicago.  My heart trembles in fear at the thought of it.

Serving Myself A Chance

Thursday evenings this summer are volleyball night for my two oldest daughters.  We head to Neighbor Town East and sit in their cool (air temp, not ambiance) gym for a couple of matches against other local squads.  For once I'm not coaching, so I can just sit and watch....and shake my head a lot.  A lot.

Tonight the head shaking was directed at the team's serving, which was abysmal.  A true team effort, too - wasn't a single player who consistently put the ball in while serving.  A week ago the group served fine; tonight they could've served from a boat on the ocean and not hit water.  Awful.

Needless to say it's pretty hard to compete on the scoreboard if serves don't get put in play.  A net serve or a ball that flies out of bounds provides zero chance at scoring a point.  Zero!  In basketball a bad shot has a slight chance of going through the hoop, or might even be rebounded and put in; a weak slapshot might trickle past the goalie in a hockey game, or get redirected by a teammate into the net.  But a botched serve is nothing but a zero chance moment for the team.  No serves, no game.

Tomorrow afternoon my girls and I depart on an interstate adventure to go visit my sister in Indiana.  We're going to drive halfway tomorrow evening, spend the night in Madison, WI, and drive the rest of the way Saturday morning.  We'll be making the return trip on the 4th of July.  What's this have to do with volleyball?  Nothing....except somehow the lousy serving tonight got me thinking about how often I've missed serves in my life.  Poor decisions, bad timing, too many excuses.....I've managed to NOT have adventures in a variety of ways.  My bad serving has resulted in too many zero chance moments, moments that could have been memorable but for my lack of decisiveness, courage, or assertiveness.

But tomorrow I serve straight and true, and all four of us are cautiously enthusiastic about the days ahead.  Oh sure, tomorrow afternoon is supposed to be hot enough to melt paint off cars.  Yes, somehow we have to enter Chicago and come out alive.  And then there's the 11 hours in a small car together.  Aside from all that, though, are the positives:  new states (for the girls), cousin time, car snacks, etc.  I'm apprehensive about the drive and the heat, but I'm at the serving line with the ball in my hand.  I'm not just going to serve - I'm ready to deliver an ace for my daughters.

So, two things to leave you with tonight:  1) You can set in stone what my next half-dozen posts are going to be about, and 2) Put your ball in play and give yourself at least a chance at whatever the opportunity is in front of you.  If I can do this trip, you can do probably just about anything by comparison.

Bon voyage!

Hunger Trends

Tonight was a food truck night.  Every Wednesday, as a matter of fact, is a food truck night.   Each Wednesday of the summer, June through August, we set up in St. Cloud, MN, at the Summertime By George music festival.  Sales start at 4:30, music starts at 5:00, everything ends at 9:00, we pull out at 9:45, I'm back to my house at 11:00.  We did the same thing last summer; twelve Wednesdays of building nachos and flingin' funnel cakes to music lovers and food seekers.  Tonight was our third week but first really busy night.  Also our hottest night, which made for a tiresome combination.  Hydrate...hydrate......

This will astound nobody but me, but it's late and I need something to write about.  Through the weeks last year and so far this year a trend has held pretty steady week and week out with regards to what customers order and when.  Potato chip nachos are our most popular item, but like clockwork 90% of our nacho sales occur during the first two hours of the night, and we almost never sell them after 8:00.  About the time the nacho sales taper off we begin getting orders for corn pups (no, they are not a corn dog....they are 450 times better than a corn dog)....so from roughly 7:00-8:30 we are hand-dipping and frying deliciousness on a stick.  Hardly ever sell them prior to 7:00.  At 8:00 the funnel cake orders begin, and like corn pups we sell very few early in the evening.  Most nights the only item we get orders for after about 8:15 is funnel cakes.

I got into each week wondering if this will be the night we get an anomaly in the pattern....but it never happens.  Nachos, followed by corn pups, topped off by funnel cakes.  We have other menu items that get ordered here and there during the evening, but for whatever reason those three things fall into tidy time slots.  I suppose an appetizer/main dish/dessert structure could be the reason for the timing.  Maybe the nacho customers are eager to get an order right away, 'cause they really are pretty phenomenal.  Oh, and here's another weird trend with the corn pups: during nacho time we get lots of customers who ask about the corn pups but don't order them.  But during corn pup time nobody asks about them, they just order them.  The humans are interesting creatures.

So yeah, that was about as intriguing to you as a wad of gum stuck to your tire.  If the patterns of food consumption on the shores of Lake George ever change I'll be sure to let you know.  Don't hold your breath.

All I do....

....is put people on fish.  Took a trip back to my new favorite lake, which I have now decided will henceforth be known as Secret Lake #6.  Took a companion this time, a bass fishin' buddy who has shared my boat a time or two in summers prior.  I had bragged up this lake after my first trip, so I was a little worried I may have set the expectations bar too high.  And the weather was against us - it rained all morning and the wind this afternoon/evening blew much stronger than it was forecast to.  From the east, no less - wind from the east, fish bite the least you know.  So everything was adding up to equal one disastrous outing.

But it was awesome (and you know my feelings about that word).  For the buddy.  He boated a dozen bass, lost another half dozen.  Also caught a few small northerns.  Me, well....I've had better success stories.  Half my energy was put towards controlling the boat in said wind.  The other half was wasted trying to catch fish.  The rough water took my topwater baits (my preferred method of bassin') out of play, so I went with a Carolina rigged Powerworm, which produced enough bites for me to discover the line on that reel is in need of replacement.  Every time I set the hook I broke the line.  Which wouldn't have been a huge problem except by the time I gave up on that rod I'd lost all of my bullet sinkers....so that was the end of worm fishing, my second favorite bait.  I eventually caught a couple of bass and two small northerns, but it just wasn't my night.

Though I don't really care.  My companion had a great time and the lake I thought might be a keeper has become a no-doubter.  An evening that wasn't good for much else turned into a terrific evening on a very peaceful lake (aside from the cursed howling wind).  Life was good this day.

A Feathered Friend

Came out to my patio to write about.....something.....anything.....and in the midst of my search for sentences I looked up and noticed this little lady spying on me:

My house wren has returned!  I have two of those nesting boxes in my patio, and that one has hosted a house wren for the last three summers.  I'm not an expert birder by any means, but the house wren has become one of my favorite little song birds.  Tiny bird, huge voice, stubborn and scolding personality.  

I got acquainted with this little wren by way of its song.  As I worked in my patio gardens I would notice a loud, shrill bird song blasting over and over from not far away.  The more I listened the more it seemed to be directed at me.  I could never find the source of the song, but later I learned why - the tiny singer was well-hidden in the black walnut branches that hang just outside the fence corner where her nesting box sits.  Eventually I began to notice the tan little bird darting in and out of the box, and when she became a bit more comfortable around me she would sit on the fence above me and scold me with her song.  Like she's doing right now.  Even after several summers of sharing this space she still seems to think I'm an intruder in her patio!

To give you some idea of her size, the hole you see her head sticking out from is barely the size of a golf ball.  But her song fills the patio and easily spills into the yard.  I was shocked the first time I connected the bird to the song - I still watch and listen in wonder that something so small can create such powerful noise.

I've wondered where she's been, as I've spent a lot of time out here the past few weeks between writing and picking berries and tending to flowers; her song has been noticeably absent.  Almost as soon as I saw her tonight I discovered what may have been keeping her away - a robin is also nested on my patio fence, and mama robin doesn't seem very happy to share her territory with mama wren.  The robin has attacked the wren several times as I've sat here, but the wren keeps coming back and announces her refusal to leave via that great big song.  I thought the robin a bully, and was pondering  putting an end to her bullying by way of my pellet gun, but then I did a little reading.  Turns out the wren isn't without fault in this dispute; wrens are known for attacking nests of bigger birds, rolling out eggs or even young chicks as a way of protecting the wren's territory.  So now, instead of wishing ill on one species or the other, I'm just going to enjoy my front row view of the mama bird battle.

I searched for some information on wrens, wanting to learn where they migrate to (southern U.S.) and when they usually return (didn't find that).  What I did find, on this site, was an outstanding recording of the wren's song.  When I played it my wren went nuts....she flew back and forth above me, from the oak tree in front of my house to the fence to the walnut tree.  And then she would sit on the fence and answer the call from my laptop.  For the longest time she sat, even after I stopped playing the recording, and stared at me while blasting her call.  She's a good sport, though; she eventually just hopped back in the nest box and poked her head out to quietly watch me for a while.

The buzz and roar of traffic is ever-present.  A medical emergency helicopter just roared in and out of town.  There are two dogs that bark far too often a couple of houses down.  And don't get me started on the incessant yammering that comes from the apartment complex that adjoins my yard.  But within my fence, thanks to a bird the size of a large mouse, I get a little connection to nature while surrounded by the cacophony of man.  I'm so glad to see her back, and look forward to a summer of scoldings from my little feathered friend.  Oh, she's gone...I might have time to pick a strawberry or two before I head in without getting yelled at!

Jammin'

One of my many projects this weekend was making jam.....sauce, to be more exact.  Strawberry/rhubarb sauce, to be even more exact.  I had a couple of gallons of strawberries from last summer still in the freezer, along with a few quarts of frozen rhubarb, so I thawed it all out and turned it into my first preserves of the summer.

I'm surprised by how many people get surprised that I make jams, jellies, syrups, and sauces.  Often the question I'm asked is "How do you know how to do it?", followed by "That's a lot of work, isn't it?"  I suppose it is a lot of work when you factor in gathering the fruit, but the process of turning the fruit into a preserved sweet treat isn't that difficult.  And how do I know how to do it?  Well, observation, research and reading, and trial and error.

I watched my mom and my grandma make berry preserves every year as I grew up so it's always seemed like something that needs to get done rather than something hard to do.  When it came time to start making my own jams and such I did some reading, made some calls to my mom for pointers, failed a few times, made notes about what worked and what didn't, and eventually started getting it right.

When you're jammin' you're aiming for two things - good flavor and good texture.  The flavor depends on two ingredients - good fruit and the right amount of sugar.  Pulling year-old berries out of the freezer is NOT the way to achieve the highest quality of taste, but they'll do.  The sugar content is the part that I've experimented the most with.  During my first few batches of jam I followed recipes to the letter, which meant I usually added one cup of sugar for each cup of fruit.  Too sweet....overpoweringly sweet.  I like to taste the fruit, so I want the sugar to bring out and enhance the fruit flavor, not drown it out.  Using older frozen berries necessitated a bit more sugar than usual but I still had about three more cups of fruit than sugar in the sauce I made today.  This has always been the fun part of making preserves, trying to nail the perfect amount of sugar.

The texture of jam or jelly comes from pectin.  When I started my jam career I used solely the boxes of pectin, such as Sure-Jel.  I still use those for some of my concoctions, but I also like to use pectin out of a resealable container so I can more carefully control the firmness of whatever I make.  I wanted the strawberry/rhubarb preserve to be more saucy than jammy, so I used a couple of tablespoons of pectin rather than a full box (which is about five tablespoons, give or take).  In hindsight I maybe could have used three tablespoons since the frozen fruit becomes so watery when thawed.  Add it to the notes, I guess.

So, how does the whole preserve process work?  Smash the fruit to the smoothness or chunkiness your little heart desires.  Stir in the pectin, but first mix the pectin with a bit of the sugar; pectin easily gets lumpy when added to liquid, but diluting it into sugar first prevents that.  Heat the fruit/pectin/sugar mix until it comes to a rolling boil, then add the remaining sugar.  Bring it all to a hard boil, stirring constantly, and then boil for one minute.  Remove from the heat.  Your preserve is made.

You'll notice a layer of foam on my sauce.  Supposedly adding a pat of butter as you cook the fruit will prevent the foam.  Skimming the foam and putting it right onto a piece of bread was always my "job" as a kid....so I'll keep my foam, thank you very much.  After skimming the foam it's time to put the sauce into jars.  I used pint jars for no particular reason, and as you can see in the top picture I sterilize them in a shallow bath of hot water while I make the sauce.  Fill the jars, lid on top, screw on a ring, and submerge the jars into a boiling water bath for 10 minutes to create a solid seal once they are cool.  And you'll know they are sealed when each jar gives its magical "plink" at various times during the cooling off period.

And that's it.  In a nutshell.  Really, it's not that hard.  Go buy the fruit if you don't want to pick it yourself and make the job even easier.  You'll notice there's writing and stickers on top of my lids; I reuse my lids (audible gasp from the oldsters reading this).  It's "recommended" that new lids always be used, but the date on the nearest lid is 2013.....so for five years I've used that lid and get a very solid seal every time.  Stop being duped and ripped off by lid manufacturers - reuse the lids.  If you give your jam or sauce to someone and they politely ask if you'd like the jar back, your answer is "yes".  The initial investment in jars, lids, and rings can be spendy, but once you've got all the pieces and reuse them year after year the cost pretty much disappears.

Try it.  I guarantee once you get the hang of jammin' you'll enjoy it, and you'll never be able to match the flavor of your own creations with anything you buy in a store.  Good luck!

Twitter tidbits.....

Didn't get to keep up with my Twitter feed today; too busy flipping burgers, frying cheese curds, and slowly dehydrating in the 100 degree food wagon.  So now, as I sit on the swing out in my not-as-peaceful-as-I'd-like patio, I get a chance to get caught up on all the quality material I missed during the day.  Such as.....

......Oh gee, a Republican said something stupid.  And oh, look - a Democrat wants everyone to be treated exactly the same.  And golly, can't believe this one - people seem upset with the president.  And wouldn't you know, other people seem upset with the former president.  Life's too short for political nonsense.  Moving on.....

.....to this:

Ha!  Good one!  Except the punctuation is horrible.  Apparently these teachers were so excited to bolt for the summer no one bothered to proofread just a little.  I'm impressed with the correct usage of "you're".....not quite as impressed at the apostrophe being made into an upside down comma in an odd spot.  Speaking of not impressive....

.......sigh.

Hey!  I remember this!

Manute Bol and Muggsy Bogues.  I've never been a huge fan of the NBA, but I clearly remember the shock waves around the league when this 7'7" string bean (Bol) started swatting away shots like they were mosquitos on a patio in late June.  Then he started shooting 3-pointers....brutally ugly shot, but they went in!  Bogues, on the other hand, was 5'3" and could dunk a volleyball.  Which would have been more impressive if that was allowed in basketball games.  And yes, youngsters, there really was a team called the Bullets.  They could shoot the lights out!  Literally.

Oh yeah?  Well I don't follow a basketball feed to get quotes from football coaches.  But he makes a good point.  What about mediocre achievers?  Who likes them?  Or high people?  Wait, that probably won't come across well....




What a beautiful fish.  And look at the lovely fishing equipment!  Huh?  Lady?  What lady?

All right, Tweets are viewed and all is now right in my world.  Except the mosquitos seem to have brought friends to this party.  And the laptop battery is quite low.  And my battery is even lower.  Until tomorrow........

New Waters

At the arrival of the New Year I chose my #OneWord for 2018 and wrote about it in this post.  The word was - and still is - EXPLORE.  And by telling you I've pretty much defeated the purpose of adding a link to the post, haven't I?

I haven't exactly been a modern day Magellan with my efforts to live up to my #OneWord.  Oh sure, I've done a little of this (coached a varsity level volleyball team for the first time) and some of that (fished on opening day for the first time in a looonnnngg time), and of course I veered off into the world of mobile phone technology.  But none of that stuff felt like true exploration; all were more like opportunities provided by circumstance.  Until today.

Today I went fishing to a lake I've never seen in a corner of the county I've never been in.  Ok, ok - so I wasn't Neil Armstrong bopping off across the moon......baby steps, people, baby steps.  The day was warm but not hot, a scarce breeze was blowing, so I decided it was time to find a new lake.  I studied a map of the county, read some lake survey results, and chose the lake I would fish.......until I noticed another lake slightly east of the one I chose.  A lake with a better name....better survey data......better water quality......a lake that somehow tugged a little stronger at my thoughts of exploring.  Decision made, I hooked up the boat and was off.

And I chose.......wisely.  The lake was beautiful, the water clarity as good as advertised.  The fishing was decent enough - not terrific, not terrible - to keep me on my toes.  The drive to and from took me through scenic lands and forests, and was a good reminder that I am surrounded by some high quality landscapes in this east-central section of the state.  In fact, today I decided that were it not for the wilderness paradise I have waiting for me up north there are pieces of land around here that would be suitable for me to die on.  All in all it was a terrific fishing trip, one that far exceeded my hopes and expectations.  I boated six of these....



....none of which were very big, but they all put up a good tussle.  That's a largemouth bass, by the way, my favorite fish to target in the summer.   I also lost a bass that might have been the biggest one of the day - but isn't that what's always said about the one that gets away?!?  Caught a few accidental sunnies, and one little hammer handle northern pike.  As I said, not terrific fishing but I think the lake has potential for some really good bass and sunfish action.

What's the lake, you ask?  It's the one I shall return to alone or with blindfolded companions.  It's a small lake that's off the beaten path, and when you find a hidden gem you don't go giving a bunch of clues to the quarry, know what I'm sayin'?  I get disgusted with some of the lakes I fish in this area of the state - too many weeds, too many people, not enough fish.  But this lake was as close to an up-north kind of lake as I've found around my area, so I'd like to keep it that way.  Quiet....calm.....mine.

With a successful day of exploration in the books I sign off for the evening, leaving you with the image I was left with as I loaded up this afternoon.  Call it a clue if you'd like....if you can find the lake based on this picture I will gladly share its waters as a reward for your ingenuity.

Aging

Tuesday, June 21, 1983

The first day of summer, my 63rd.  No one is more astounded than I am to realize that I have seen that many summers.  Perhaps I am unrealistic to expect my body to perform better - to be so frustrated by my pains.  These muscles and sinew have served me well for long past half a century; but my grandmothers moved more easily than I when they were past eighty!  The only thing that slowed them down was losing their sight.

My grandma's words from 35 years ago.  I was 10 years old at the time.  She would have been about nine years younger than my mom (her daughter) is right now.  She and my grandpa and my immediate family spent a week at a resort together that summer.  My family hadn't yet moved to where my parents live now.  I was experiencing the decade of the best music ever created.

Her words "expect my body to perform better" strike me as kind of funny.  She talks as if she's a decathlete in the twilight of her career or something.  And little did she know she was going to live nearly 35 more years!  I wonder if she reread that sometime in her late 80s or early 90s, when the real aches and pains were setting in....the ones her grandmas surely had even if they weren't noticed by her.

To add another stat to my first paragraph of analytics, I'm 18 years away from 63.  If I live long enough to see my 63rd summer solstice I wonder what kinds of pains I'll be blogging about?  I already have a few that don't seem to disappear - will they be worse?  My daughters will all be grown and (hopefully) out of college and (hopefully) living on their own and (hopefully) sending portions of their monthly incomes to dear OLD dad as reimbursement for all his wisdom over the years.  I'll still be about 20 years away from retirement.  I might even be a grandpa.  Ugh, where's the delete key.....

I remember my grandparents from when I was 10.....they were old!  Holy cow, I just thought of something - grandma's oldest son is nearly as old as she was in 1983.  I look at him, and think back to my grandpa through my ten-year-old eyes....and grandpa seemed way older!  So what has happened in 35 years to make the 60s of now seem so much younger than the 60s of then?  Has aging slowed down?  Has a lifetime of comfort (my grandparents were the Greatest Generation, surviving The Depression and WWII to produce the Baby Boomers) added years to our youth, delaying the onset of "old age"?  Or as we ourselves age does it become that much harder to see old age in others?  I have no answers....maybe there are no answers.

In a recent conversation with an acquaintance the process of aging was compared to a roll of toilet paper.  Don't worry, it's clean TP.  Anyway, when the roll is new and full it doesn't seem to disappear very fast when unrolled.  But the smaller the roll gets, the faster it vanishes, especially when you get past the halfway point.  Life works the same, does it not?  When we're kids the days and weeks and years seem.....to take...........forever.  But now the years fly by, seemingly at the same rate as months used to.  We hear it all the time - "I don't know where last week went!" or "Before I knew it March was gone!".  Being on the last half of the roll myself, I know that the time between now and 63 will be gone far faster than the 18 years from 27 until now.  That's humbling.  And frightening.

Live long and prosper, everyone, while you've still got squares on your roll.

Strawberry Delight

The advanced scouting reports from my people in the know point to a banner year for wild blueberries.  Clusters of green chokecherries hang in wait of my return in early August, when the berries are black against the white of the buckets they fill.  Juneberries are already starting to show hints of purple; hopefully the birds don't notice.  Wild plums are now the size of a pea, and as green, and in time will close the door on this summer's fruit harvest.  Yes, the warm and wet of spring - and the lack of a late frost - have set the stage for a berry picker's dream summer.  And starting this year's fruit harvest off?  Strawberries!

When I moved into my house four years ago the patio garden area was filled with crushed rock and a few perennial flowers and bushes.  After a lot of work the rock is gone, the flowers and bushes have a new home, and strawberry plants now fill their void.  My garden is about seven feet wide and maybe 20 feet long.  I filled half of that with June-bearing strawberry plants last year, the other half with ever-bearing plants this year.  So this has been the first berry harvest I've been able to enjoy.....and oh how we have enjoyed it.

Strawberries aren't my favorite berry for eating - blueberries get that honor - and I'd much rather process chokecherries, but it's been a lot of fun for my daughters and I to walk out the door and take three steps to a handful of fresh berries.  Strawberry crepes for breakfast the other day, strawberries on waffles this morning, and strawberries for a snack anytime we feel like it.  And, just for a bonus, I've got a small wild strawberry patch in my backyard.  About the size of a dining room table, it's nothing more than a patch of my lawn I leave unmowed until late June.  This year's wild berries are huge!  Another sign we're in for a banner berry year.

Had more I wanted to say about strawberries, but my writing was interrupted by another evening in the food stand and the midnight hour is close at hand....need to get this posted so #The100DayProject stays on track.  With a little luck (on my part....probably not lucky for you) I'll have plenty of berry adventures to write about in the next couple of months.

Strange Times

There are American kids all across our country living in abusive environments, who should be separated from their family but never are.  I wonder when they will become headline news?

"Leaders" from each political party openly disrespect each other on live television, yet athletes take criticism for silently, peacefully attempting to promote respect.  I wonder if we could make a third political party composed entirely of coaches and athletes, humans who understand what teamwork means and how to solve problems?

I see a news anchor cry while delivering "news" that may not be entirely true.  I wonder if her crying is entirely true?

There's enough money to invest in a new branch of military, but not enough to invest in education.  I wonder who will be intelligent enough to serve in the space force?

I wonder if my daughters will ever be debt free once they leave college?

The biggest threat to our country doesn't recognize borders or religions or political bias.  I wonder if the right people will ever attempt to save the planet?

The Supreme Leader says the news is fake.  The news says the Leader is fake.  I wonder if anyone can be believed anymore?

I wonder how long it takes for immigrants to wonder why they bothered?

I wonder if Finland has room for four?

Margaret's Musings

Laundry Day

Down and up the basement stairs
   In and out the door
To the line and back again
   Twenty times or more

Bend to reach the basket
   Stretch to reach the line
Bend and stretch, bend and stretch
   Twice a hundred times

But oh, the satisfaction
   Now the job is done
Sheets and towels, sheets and sox
   Hanging in the sun

Now I can take an hour
   In the blessed rocking chair
Elevate the aching legs
   May none disturb me there

                         (summer 1993)

A little over a week ago I spoke at my grandmother's funeral.  My words from that day became this addition to my blog, which has since become my most viewed post.  As noted in my speech, my grandmother was a lover of literature.  Nearly every time anyone visited her she talked about just finishing or being in the middle of a book (or several).  When her age forced her to move from her home into an apartment my mom and her siblings began to sort through her many, many, many belongings, and in doing so began to find notepads with jottings and poems and lamentations and more.  We all began to realize that Grandma probably spent as much time writing as she did reading.

When she died the writings she left were gathered and read and shared and then boxed.  As I saw snippets of her work, and heard stories of the volumes I had yet to see, I made the comment that Grandma would have made a wonderful blogger.  Which maybe was a little inaccurate - now that I've started to look through the first folder I pulled out of the first tub of her literary musings I realize that Grandma was a wonderful blogger....without a blog.  Tonight I share a bit of her work - the Laundry Day poem that led tonight's post and one more to follow - so her words can reach beyond the inside of a tub.  She would have made a wonderful blogger.....she should have been a wonderful blogger....and now she will be.

May 1, 2003.  Exactly one decade after Laundry Day.  My grandpa was battling cancer, again.  He and Grandma had been married nearly 59 years on this date.  Had lived in the same house on the same farm for all of those years, but now he spent nights in the nursing home while getting rides to the farm to spend most days.  He would live another two years, but on this day Grandma wrote the following poem.

Spring breezes whisper softly
Birds sweetly trill and sing
The sun above is warming
The country church bells ring.

Why then is my heart heavy?
Why do the tears still flow?
My love is going from me
And I cannot let him go.

Ah, but we have the promise
That we will meet once more.
That he will wait there for me
At Heaven's golden door.

And that he will not need to travel
The journey with no friend
Someone will keep him company
And hold his weathered hand.

And it is Christ our Savior
For he has finally come
To close accounts forever
And take his servant home.

So many questions that can never be answered:  Had he taken a turn for the worse?  Had he told her he felt the end was near?  Was she wearing down even though he may not have been?  How long had she been carrying these feelings, that she was losing him?  And were they ever-present for the next two years?  And probably my biggest question:  Did he ever see or hear this poem?  My gut says "no".  My heart says "hope so".

I have a tub the size of Rhode Island sitting in my living room, a box on top of that, and the folder I pulled these poems from.  I'm not sure where the contents of each, Grandma's words, will lead me, but I'll bring my readers along on occasion.  I don't expect her words to do for you what they do for me, but her writing deserves an audience.  Thank you for becoming what she never had.

Fatherly thoughts

Two years ago on Father's Day I wrote this post that was a tribute to my daughters and what wonderful humans they were (at that point).  The oddity of that post and this Father's Day is the weather; a half-hour ago tornado sirens went off, and two years ago I wrote how we "waited for tornadoes and large hail to pummel us".  Neither thing happened on either day, thankfully, but should I start to plan for severe weather every Father's Day weekend?!?  Oh, and my girls are still wonderful humans....for now.

Today Twitter is, of course, brimming with Father's Day messages and pictures and links, one of which led me to this bit of writing on making connections with your kids.  Here's my favorite excerpt:

So now, allow me to share some parenting thoughts inspired by those words.  I make no claims of being an expert parent and chances are pretty strong that I'm barely mediocre at following my own wisdom.  But my kids have turned out well enough that I can't be too shabby at parenting.  Besides, my thoughts are nothing more than free advice, and you know what they say about the value of advice delivered for free....

For starters, the idea of finding common ground.  The article from which I gleaned the above excerpt included an example of a mom who became a sports fan only because her sons were sports fans.  As parents it's critical we do this leaning in towards our kids' lives to find out where they are at with their interests and dreams and then meet them there.  We must be careful not to lean too far in, though, so kids can figure out how to navigate independence as they grow; pick an interest or two and go with it, letting them have the rest to themselves (the legal ones, of course).  Avoid the dumb stuff your kid likes (the "music", the fashion, the Snapgrams).

What the article didn't mention, what I believe is just as important when reaching common ground with kids, is the necessity of bringing kids towards some of the parent's own ground.  A child/parent relationship based solely on the child's interests can lead to some negative traits developing in that child - entitlement, self-centeredness, and lack of empathy to name a few.  If we want well-rounded kids who can see world through more than their own lens we have to push, pull, and maybe force our children towards some of our own interests, whether they like it or not.  If parents and kids can find a balance in time spent together on each other's interests the positive growth outcomes will increase for both parties.

As will the opportunities for conversation, which is rapidly becoming a lost art.  Find some shared interests, set aside the electronic devices, and visit with each other about that common ground.  Note the word with; there's a subtle difference between talking to someone and talking with someone.  Talking to is one sided, driven by one source, and implies that one side has power over the other.  Talking with implies sharing, taking turns, and most importantly, listening.  Kids constantly get talked to by adults - at school, at home, at games and practices - so what a gift it is when an adult talks with a kid.

Parenting doesn't have to be as hard as the complaints of so many parents make it out to be.  It's not easy, to be sure.  But if the parent makes an effort to take an interest in some of the child's interests, to have the backbone to force the child out of his/her comfort zone, and to invest as much time as possible into conversing with each other, parenting becomes much more enjoyable.  More importantly, parenting's end product (the child) will enter adulthood ready to improve the lives of others, including his/her own kids.

iPhailed

Computer technology is such a wonderful necessary evil.  For instance, today I watched Daughter Two play volleyball...from 300 miles away.  Daughter One FaceTimed me via her phone to my laptop, giving Grandpa and Grandma and I the chance to see a game we had zero chance to attend.  The wealth of information available at the click of a button is staggering.  The options for communication seem endless.  The ease at which we can make instant world-wide connections is like something out a science fiction movie.  Indeed, much of what was science fiction less than a generation ago is commonplace today in regards to technology.

But there's the dark side of the tech moon, too.  The addiction to devices.  The rapid rise of isolation and loneliness felt by so many in this "social, connected" world.  The sedentary lifestyle that silently takes the place of normal physical activity.  The rewiring of brains, that science is only starting to understand.  And, absolutely missing so much of what life has to offer, what the world presents to each of you, because you can't ever look away from the screen you carry at all times.

I purposely used "you" in the previous sentence because I have not fallen into the category of device carrier.  My life's quest has been simple - to be the last human on the planet who did not own a smart mobile cellular phone device thingy.  I will now pause to let that sink in for those of you who find this to be news....trust me, I'm quite familiar with the look on your face.  Recovered from the shock, have you?  Yes, that's right - I have resisted all attempts to become one of the faceless many (You know who you are, all ye who can't look up from your little screens thus letting the world see only the top of your heads.  You're thin up there, by the way.) and have survived quite nicely without any kind of mobile phone.

But my quest has ended.

I am now the stunned and reluctant owner of my very own iPhone 8.

Once again I am pausing, for those readers who know me best have been smitten to their knees in shock.
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I'm telling you, this is huge news in my little social circle.
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Ok, I'm tired of waiting for them.  Long story short:  It's my sister's fault.  And because of her generosity I now have a new quest for the remainder of my days - to avoid falling into the technology trap that has sucked so many of you in.  Along with keeping my phone number as guarded as the Roswell secrets of '47.

I'll admit it - it was time.  Probably past time.  I truly have survived very well without a phone, but in the last year or so I've more and more noticed myself thinking "If I had a phone right now I could...."  And now I can.  Already I've seen some benefits - I was able to drive away from my folks' today without my mother lecturing me about how much safer I'd be with a phone.  When I stopped to gas up I could quickly check in with my daughters about the volleyball games.  And when I got home to a patio full of ripe strawberries I could take this picture and Tweet about it without having to use a camera and then download and then email.

So once again, yes I've never owned a phone and yes I now do own a phone - you've not been dreaming any of this.  All the looks of astonishment on others' faces at the former will be replaced by the same looks upon learning the latter, I suppose.  I intend to be disciplined enough with my phone so as not to let life pass me by while staring at the dang thing, and I hope that if you and I cross paths we'll be able to see more than each other's bald spot.  And with that, I leave you now....my phone is buzzing.

A Clear Favorite

I spent a couple of hours on a small (less than 100 acres) lake this evening.  A lake I used to fish a lot but haven't wet a line in for at least twenty years.  A lake so widely known for its mediocre fishing I have no qualms about revealing its name - Clear Lake.  Ha!  Minnesota is, of course, the Land of 10,000 Lakes, and at least 3,500 of those are named "Clear".  Good luck finding the one I was on.  But if you do, here's what you might see....or, at least, here's what I saw during my time in the boat...

A pair of beaver were trolling about the northeast corner of the lake where their lodge is located.....and has been located for at least thirty years.  One was busy hauling fresh-cut saplings to the lodge, the other stayed busy by slapping its tail at me repeatedly until I moved down the shoreline.  Not far from the beaver lodge a muskrat was splashing in the shallows along the shore, digging up cattail roots for its supper.  On the point across from the boat landing a large painted turtle had crawled thirty feet up the very steep bank and was digging herself into the sand to lay eggs.  A bald eagle began to screech from above where the turtle was nesting, eventually flying into sight over the treetops.  The eagle's destination was its own nest on the opposite shore in a majestic white pine tree.  Eventually I fished my way under the nest and spent as much time looking into the eyes of the male eagle and his mate as I did watching my lure.  My gaze at the eagles was interrupted by a pair of trumpeter swans announcing their approach with rhythmic honks uttered as they flew low over the entire length of the lake.

You might be wondering how I was able to concentrate on fishing if I was watching a nature documentary unfold around me.  Well, there's two ways of thinking about the fishing I was doing.  On the one hand, being intent on my fishing keeps me aware of all activity around me.  I was bass fishing, throwing mostly topwater lures while slowly trolling the edge of the weed line.  So I had to stay focused on wind, boat direction and speed, potential casting spots, my lure, and the water around my lure for signs of an attacking fish.  Being intense towards all of that leads to an overall intensity towards everything else.....a total focus on nature's activities.  On the other hand fishing stunk, so I had plenty of time to watch anything I wanted to watch.

The takeaways from the evening were many.  I was reminded again how lucky I am to know of these small lakes, to have this Northwoods solitude be a part of my life.  (side note: The solitude was in short supply thanks to the noisy generator some cabin dwellers were using, along with the noisy motor and noisier conversation coming from Tweedle-Dum and Tweedle-Dummer's boat.  Ugh, humans.)  I spent much of my evening contrasting the many changes in my life over the last twenty years with the relatively unchanged lake.  And I once again proved that catching bass is what I do best.  I didn't catch many, and none were big, but to be on a lake with few bass and fish it for as short a time as I did and still catch more than a limit of bassarinos (as my grandpa, who spent many evenings with me on this lake, used to call them) felt darn good.

I was pretty much still a kid the last time I regularly fished this Clear Lake.  I returned tonight very much an aged man.  Thankfully the lake didn't seem to care.  The stretch of shoreline between the landing and the resort held fish as always, Beaver Bay was worthless as always, the weedbeds were waiting patiently to foul my lures and trolling motor prop, and Karen was in her yard next to the landing still reminding me that she charges a fee to most fishermen when they want to use "her" lake. Add all the critters that put on a good show for me as if they were glad I was back....it was tough to figure out why it had been so long since my last visit.  I won't wait another twenty years before my next one.

Winds of Despair

This has to be short if I'm gonna get today's entry posted before midnight....

Drove back to the north country today....northern Minnesota that is.  Got up and hit the road early, hoping to use the sunny afternoon to spray some food plots with herbicide.  Got here to discover plenty of sunshine, but also plenty of wind.  Ugh, wind - the worst weather possible.

Can't spray when it's windy.  Tough to do anything when it's windy.  My parents, my sister and family, and I went fishing tonight and got blown all over the lake.  And rained on.  And thundered at. But mostly dealt with the wind.  Tough to cast in, tough to control the boat in, just overall tough to fish in.  Now, because all I do is put people on fish we did catch a nice group of crappies and one nice walleye....but the wind made it stressful.  So with no field work done and a fishing trip nearly ruined it's easy to look at this day of summertime as being destroyed by the wind.  Except for one thing....

We flew kites this afternoon.  I haven't flown a kite for.....decades, maybe?  My nephews had a couple of big, inflatable kites that were kind of fun to watch, but when my mom mentioned the possibility of an old kite being in the porch I had to go look.  She was wrong - there were three kites!  Pretty soon the skies above the north pasture were filled with kites.  At one point a lone duck came flying through from the west and got noticeably confused by the UFOs in its flight path.

I'd forgotten what it was like to fly a kite - simple yet a little complicated.  Dull while being somewhat intriguing.  Relaxing.  To stand and watch a piece of plastic wrapped around some sticks hover in the sky doesn't sound appealing on the surface.  But it was a lot of fun.  I'm not ashamed to admit that I was still flying a kite long after the kids had moved on to other activities....

The wind still howls as the clock pushes towards midnight.  I have hopes of waking to calmer weather tomorrow so I can fish without the stress of boat control.  I can't stand windy days....but for an hour this afternoon the wind became an ally in a childhood activity that even an old grump can find fun.

Grandstanding

Late last spring my youngest sister opened her new food wagon business, The Grandstand Concession Co., which I featured in a post I wrote right here.  After a successful, and extremely busy, first season of flinging funnel cakes and churning out cheese curds she is back in action once again.  And once again I have signed on to assist with many of her scheduled events.......starting tonight.

So far this summer she's been on the road to Brainerd, MN, for a couple of Friday/Saturday gigs at two different breweries in that area.  A light schedule, but at the end of last summer she was A) exhausted, and B) already planning improvements for this summer.  Improvement #1 - fewer gigs.  We, she, learned quickly that going to an event was only half of the work involved with operating a food wagon; getting stocked and ready was the other half.  Last summer we overbooked, leaving little time for inventory runs and, quite frankly, physical recovery.  Standing and cooking and serving in a small, hot space for 6-13 hours at a time is mentally and physically draining.  It was easy to look back on the summer and realize the schedule was insane, just like we would be if we did that again.

So she said "no" to some of our less-profitable venues, "yes" to the ones we really enjoyed, and once again she is back in business.  It feels a little different this year, though.  Last year was an adventure, something fresh and exciting, a long-time dream realized, a terrific exercise in living boldly.  This year it seems more like a job.  As mentioned I haven't worked in the wagon yet - at the end of my final gig last summer I immediately told sister-boss I would NOT be working as much this summer - and whereas last year I saw the concession business as a way out of my current career, this year I know my future is not in food sales.  It's a fantastic way to earn money, my sister has created what I'm sure will be a successful business.....but it's not for me.  I will help often and we will have some fun and hopefully make some money - but the cautious enthusiasm I carried into last summer's wagon tour has been replaced by willing assistance this year.  Maybe once I tie on the apron and resume my role as the Deep-Fry Messiah the enthusiasm will return.

In just a few hours I'll find out, as we debut at opening night of the Summertime By George concert series in St. Cloud, MN.  Easily one of my favorite events last summer, for the next twelve Wednesdays we will take our place amongst dozens of other vendors to peddle our delicacies to (hopefully) thousands of music and food lovers.  Last year's opening night drew a crowd of 14,000 and holy moly were we busy!  I anticipate a bigger night tonight - the weather is spectacularly perfect, and last year we were brand new and unknown.  By the end of the summer we had a corps of customers who sought us out each week - Grandstand Jan, funnel cake guy, cheese-curd Chuck, etc. - and a few of our menu items had become pretty popular.  So we'll see what difference a year has made.

Here's a link to the events page of the business's website, and here's a link to the menu page.  The menu is huge, but we don't serve it all each time out...not even Deep-Fry Messiah could keep up with all that!  My favorites?  The Blue Ribbon Sliders and the Up-North Corn Pup.  The customers' favorite?  The Best In Show Nachos.  The item I could live without?  The Fresh Fried Pie.  They are delicious, but a major pain in the rear to serve.  We'd love to have you visit our wagon...but if you order a pie I will most assuredly say naughty words under my breath.

I hope your summer is Grand.....and I hope ours is, too.

Trash Panda

As I write this the state of Minnesota, and much of the nation, is watching with awe as a raccoon rests on a 23rd floor ledge after scaling the side of a really tall building in St. Paul.  I'll pause a moment to let that statement sink in.

Am I alone in finding this whole raccoon thing absurd?  I have two thoughts on the masked bandit that has captured a nation's attention: 1) Big deal.  and 2) Why hasn't anyone shot it?  No, really - how hard would it have been to snipe it from the street when it was only a couple of stories up?  And once it got higher couldn't someone just reach out a window with a broom or yard stick and knock it on the head?  'Cause remember - It's.  A.  Raccoon.

Vile creature, the raccoon.  Rabid.  Destructive.  Sneaky.  Aggressive.  If you read this blog often enough it should become clear how much I love and respect nature.  But not raccoons.  Take a second to search for "benefits of raccoons".  Then take less than a second to read all the results....that's right, there aren't any!  Ok, fine, a few 'coon huggers will try to tell you that raccoons help us by keeping small pest populations in check.  That's weak, especially when the damage raccoons cause far outweighs any "pest control" they do.  So yeah, death to raccoons.

Come on, America, ignore the raccoon.  The rest of the world already thinks we're a bunch of dopes for the way we've let our government become overrun with rodents and vermin.  Why provide more proof of our collective dimwittedness by standing around staring at, and cheering for, a pesky mammal?  Look away.....just look away.

Because once you're not looking someone can kill it.  (insert evil laughter here)

Deer Farming 2018, Chapter 2

My little-kid dreams of what I would be as a grown-up pretty much revolved around three choices:  a professional basketball player, a Rebel pilot battling The Empire alongside Luke Skywalker, or a farmer.  The basketball dream died when I stopped growing at closer to six feet tall than seven.  I haven't completely given up on becoming a Rebel pilot, though I'm starting to think The Alliance isn't taking my resume and application materials seriously.  I'm happy to say the farming dream has come true, albeit in a far different way than I had ever pictured.

As I grew up my parents were always doing some form of "farming".  We had cows, chickens, pigs, horses, gardens, crops.....not all that stuff at once, but usually an assortment of animals along with the gardens/crops.  I pictured myself doing the same someday - owning a piece of land and raising some animals on the side while I pursued a different career full time.  Instead I live in town and have zero desire to ever own animals.  Except chickens; I still hope to be a chicken wrangler again someday.  No, the farming I did as a kid, the farming I thought I'd do as an adult, holds no appeal to me any longer.  Instead, I have become a deer farmer.

Not a lot of income in deer farming, at least not the way I do it.  In fact, there is no tangible income at all - only expenditures.  The income arrives each fall in the form of hunting adventures and making memories for my dad and I and my kids.  The job description of a deer farmer boils down to two tasks:  improve habitat and create food sources.  I wrote at length about the habitat improvements I worked on earlier this spring; in hindsight that post should have been "chapter 1" of deer farming, thus the "chapter 2" on this post.  My focus the last couple of days has been on our food plots.

Like real farmers, our success or failure as deer farmers hinges on weather and machinery when it comes to creating food sources for deer.  Our machinery consists of a Ford 8N tractor from the 1950s, or as I like to call it, The Bleepity-Blank Tractor.  Often a less than reliable machine, the old Ford ran really well for us last year which, combined with timely rains, allowed us to grow a variety of high-quality forage for our deer herd.  And now the process starts again.

Step one this year was to mow off the weeds that have taken advantage of the warm, wet spring we've had here in northern Minnesota.  After soaking the plots with herbicide last summer my dad and I are dismayed, and surprised, to see the amount of weed growth we have to deal with again this year.  So I  put the brush hog on the tractor, which has run beautifully so far this year, and I mowed.  And I mowed.  And I mowed.  Three hours last night, another three hours this morning.  The purpose of all this mowing is two-fold: cutting off the knee-high weeds will make the soil work up a little easier - so The Bleepity-Blank Tractor doesn't get overworked - and the trimmed grasses/weeds will drink up the herbicide a little better.

The Bleepity-Blank Tractor waiting patiently for me to scream at it when it refuses to start.  This is our Sand Flat food plot, about an acre that we planted to brassicas last year.

You're supposed to see the tall weeds on the right compared to the mowed portion on the left.  I'm a farmer, not a photographer.  Same plot as above.

Again, a look at tall weeds vs. mowed weeds.  Again, epic fail.  This is a small, secluded plot surrounded by pines that I seeded with oats last year.

Last year:  We seeded our two largest plots, each about an acre in size, with a brassica mix that contained turnips, daikon radishes, and rape.  We also filled about 3/4 of an acre with clover seed and oats.  We seeded our five small plots, each less than a quarter acre, with oats.  The brassicas grew like crazy and provided a ton of food for deer from August through November.  The deer ate the greens above the ground until after the ground started to freeze, then they began digging the radishes and turnips.  It was the first time we had grown brassicas successfully, though we still made one mistake by spreading the seed a bit too thick.  The clover grew but not enough to really feed the deer much; the oats were the attraction in that patch last year.  The oats in the clover, and in our smaller plots, grew as well as everything else, but we planted the oats way too early.  We kind of knew this, but decided we'd go ahead and plant early, thinking that the deer would eat the oat grains off the mature plants.  They did and they didn't.  What deer really seem to prefer from oats are the young shoots of the oat plants that are less than six inches tall.  Once the plant matures it becomes tough and woody, and even when the oat heads formed the deer weren't very attracted to the oat patches.  So even though all our oat plots were a lush green last year they really didn't do much to help our hunting.  Live and learn.

This year:  If we can get the weeds under control (die, weeds, DIE!!) and IF we can get the soil worked into shape (come on you bleepity-blank tractor!) we will for sure be planting the same brassica mix again in the same spots, just a little less thick than last year.  We discovered that wherever the seed was dispersed properly the plants and roots grew much bigger...so plant less and get more.  The clover we planted last year looks terrific right now, lush and tender.  I almost ate some myself, it looks so good, so that was/is a success.  We will be more disciplined about waiting to plant oats until mid-August, and then hope for some fall rains.  So now, what to do with those oat plots for the next couple of months?  I've been researching food plot options, and would like to plant some protein packed, nitrogen fixing legumes....cowpeas, lablab, maybe soybeans.  Not sure yet, but I've got to make up my mind soon I suppose.

As I mowed yesterday and this morning I would find myself getting disgusted at missing a clump of weeds with the mower and backtracking to clip them off, or weaving around trying to evenly mow spots that looked ragged.  I had to smack myself upside the head as a reminder that I'm not attempting to prepare a cash crop, or a food crop for myself or my livestock.  The work I'm doing is for deer, for crying out loud.  They probably aren't going to get picky about uneven mowing.  Point is, we take our deer farming pretty seriously, even if at its base it's a little silly.  But it's a hobby I enjoy, it's a shared activity for my dad and I, it helps nature a little bit, and it makes hunting feel like more than a fall event.  Not to mention that being a deer farmer makes a boyhood dream come true.  I sure wish the shiny John Deere tractor in my dreams would have come true, too.

Family Fishin'

Today was my second "opening day" of fishing this spring/summer.  About a month ago I wrote this post about the official Opening Day of the 2018 fishing season; on that day my dad and I fished in his canoe on Secret Lake #3.  I haven't been on the water or wet a line since.  Until today.

This morning my three daughters and my youngest nephew accompanied me to Secret Lake #1.  It was their first fishing trip this summer as well as the first time my boat has touched water since last summer, thus my reasoning for claiming a second opening day.

Blue skies, warm sunshine, and a gusty south-east wind greeted us as we backed down to the water's edge.  After the usual first-time-floundering during the boat launching process (I didn't forget to put the plug in!) we piled into the boat and did a collective breath-hold while I started cranking on the pull rope of my motor; after more pulls than I wanted but not as many I was afraid of the motor roared to life.  So the boat still floated and the motor actually started - we were off to a fine start.  After a 10 minute boat ride around the lake (it's a small lake) we settled into a calm bay to see if our good fortune would continue.

Have you ever fished with kids?  Have you ever fished with four kids, in a boat, with no other adults?  No?  Hmmmmm, how best to describe the experience.  Find a small room that's about four feet wide and sixteen feet long.  Bring four fishing rods with you.  Throw some fishing lures on the floor, even a couple of live fish.  Before locking yourself inside this room squeeze in one more thing - an F-1 tornado.  Close the door and let the tornado do its thing.  There, you have now fished with four kids!

Let's see - four hooks to bait, four hooks to take fish off of.  Two rods that somehow kept getting the line twisted around the end (the rods used by the youngest fisherpeoples.....hmmmmm).  One rod that flew apart on a cast.  One line that got caught in the trolling motor......ok, ok, that one was my line!  One fisherman in the front who kept setting the hook really well into submerged logs and branches.  One fisherwoman in the back who managed to hook a tire - a tire! - laying on the bottom of the lake.  One fisherwoman in the middle who did a really good job of following the guide's directions of how to catch fish, but then who wouldn't follow directions on how to take the fish off.  One swirling wind that required the guide/fish releaser/hook baiter/snag remover/motor operator to constantly be adjusting and readjusting our course.  But there was also....

....a lot of smiles.  Some belly laughs.  Everyone caught a fish (except for the guide).  My middle daughter caught the bass she was fishing for.  We had some close-up views of a bald eagle.  We also had buzzards circling for a while, which was a bit unnerving.  We got to spend a couple of hours on a really pretty lake.  We saw our first fawn of the summer on our drive home.  Most importantly, I got to fish with my kids.

Sure, fishing with kids is challenging.  But giving my kids the opportunity to spend time fishing is worth all of the challenges and (sometimes) frustrations of helping them fish.  It's been said "time spent fishing is not subtracted from a man's life."  Even though fishing with a boatload of kids can be - and usually is - exhausting, I have to believe that time spent fishing with kids actually adds to a man's life.  I know it adds to theirs.  And, exhausting or not, how could I not have fun with this crew?

Celebration of Life

In late February my maternal grandmother passed away.  At 97 years old she was my final living grandparent. On that day I wrote this post to share what it meant to see that last grandparent leave my life.  Today, three and a half months later, a memorial service - a "Celebration of Life" - was held in her honor.  Yes, yes - it took nearly four months to get a funeral put together for her; she was a procrastinator in life and was very generous with sharing that genetic trait with her five children.  My mom asked me to speak, to reflect, on Grandma Margaret at today's service.  So I gathered input from my cousins and put together the following words to honor a woman who simply lived her life in a way that was nothing short of remarkable.

Margaret's Angels - my youngest sister Marni, Grandma Margaret, and oldest younger sister Megan with a Charlie's Angels pose while at Cousin Heather's wedding.

She stood at the dining room window, watching night lift itself away on dawn's first hints of light.  Those hints became whispers, the whispers begat colors, and still, she stood.  Now immersed in the silence of light she could gather the scene before her - her yard, the road, the field and trees beyond.  To most eyes this view was unchanging from day to day, but not to hers.  She was a noticer, a see-er of that which eludes the attention of most.  While we might see the branch that had broken in last night's winds or an unfamiliar bird at the feeder, she noted the missing leaves from the unbroken branches, the damaged tail feathers on that bird.  Most often she took pause at how the colors danced with the clouds in morning's earliest song, cherishing each dance as a gift from her God, while giving thanks for the day ahead and the people who would fill it.  And still, she stood.

The timing of this scene - the day, the season, the year - mattered not; she was shaped over time, but time did not define her.  Nor was this woman defined by the jobs she held - postal worker, farmer, craft shop retailer - or the roles she played - mom, wife, neighbor, grandma - because what she brought to each of them was stronger than the forces they applied to her.  By all outward appearances this woman lived what many would see as a "simple life", so it might seem a small task, defining someone who spent all but her very last year in the same tiny town, most of her previous years in the same small house, many of her mornings watching the same scene unfold.  However, the great flaw of our current culture is the importance we place on those outward appearances, and in doing so we miss opportunities to find out who people really are until they have misled us, hurt us, left us.

But this woman never misled or hurt others, and while it's true she did live a simple life it was a life lived with contented strength, with peaceful kindness, with quiet empathy, and with unbiased love.  More importantly none of those traits were hidden, which is why defining this woman need not, should not, be done with titles or roles or relationships or first glances - the woman who stood at that window was the woman who stood in the post office, and the woman who sent her children out into the world was the woman who welcomed the world into her home.  She was who she was regardless of setting or company.  Who among us can claim such strength?

To reflect more on who she was we turn to her grandchildren.  Her children knew her longer, of course, but children see their parents over years of transition for both parties; a child's ability to perceive is developing as a parent is finding his or her way through life.  The result?  A muddled description of who someone was, who someone is, with a lot of foggy perceptions in between.  Grandkids, though, arrive in time to meet the mostly-finished product of life's journey - grandpa or grandma has settled in to the person they were meant to be.  And, truth be told, parents eventually want their kids out while grandparents are very, very eager to welcome grandkids in.  That feeling of being welcomed?  It rang clear in thoughts spoken aloud by her grandchildren:

"She always made me feel like a part of the conversation, even when I was really young."  "She had a giving heart, an open heart."  "She was so open minded and accepting."

 Not only did she welcome, she listened:

"I tilt my head and nod when I listen, just like she did, because she was really good at looking like she was listening.  Not that she wasn't listening, it's just that she was so good at looking like she understood me."

She was tough:

"When I think of Grandma I see the leader of this unique, massive family, showing strength through it all."  "My God, she put up with Grandpa all those years!"

But never missed a chance to show how much she cared for others:

"She always encouraged me to never give up, try new things, keep learning, and strive to get better."  "She knew how everybody in the family was doing with school or jobs or sports, and it made me feel good that Grandma cared how I was doing."  "She always had newspaper clippings of something good I had done."  "She knew I was donating plasma for extra money in college, so she sent me $5 and asked that I not do that because she was worried about me.  But the plasma got me $50, so...."

And tying all those thoughts together - food and the kitchen table.  Every response to the question "What do you remember about grandma?" made some note of sitting at the kitchen table enjoying whatever treats she and grandpa had "whipped up".  That kitchen table hosted Christmases, Thanksgivings, deer hunting strategy sessions, and Tuesday coffee for the neighborhood.  And always there was food, and always she was at the table, listening, observing, sharing when necessary, content to let others have their say.  "Food and hugs and warmth and contentedness" perhaps best sums up who this woman was through the eyes of her grandchildren, and would most likely be agreed upon by others who truly knew her as well.  Now, back to that window....

A new day before her could have meant a variety of tasks around the home - weeds in the garden, dirty clothes in the hamper, berries in the fridge - or perhaps it was a day away at work, at a ballgame, or to share time with family or friends.  Unlike her, those activities were defined by day or season or year, and for a woman whose life appeared so simple the breadth of possibilities for any one of her days cannot be stated simply at all.  There was a constant, however, in her day to day life we would be remiss to leave unmentioned - her love of the written word.  She read and she wrote, and she wrote while she read.  She journaled what she saw out that window, wrote notation of what she learned from reading each day.  Every gift she received was noted, every journey she took documented.  Every card she sent carried a message, every message scripted with care in its look and its meaning.  This writing she did, this writing she gave us, provides a confluence of tactile history with our inconsistent memories of her, neither of which is more or less true than the other.  For a woman who held no degrees of higher learning the depth of her knowledge was limited only by the books she had yet to read.  As the rest of us struggle to understand the present or recall the past, her ability to do both was carried to the end on a sea of written words she consumed and produced every single day.

Until she no longer did.  Her journey ended the way so many of her days began - in peace, in tranquility, with family close at hand.  We celebrate her life today with happy memories tainted by heavy hearts, though were she here she would advise us to focus on the happy while empathizing with our need to feel heavy.  As we move forward without her we would do well to carry ourselves as she did - with the knowledge of when to listen and when to listen even more, with quiet stoicism in the face of turmoil, with an open mind and an even more open heart, with a thirst for learning and true understanding.  She would brush aside such praise with an "Oh, pshaw", but women like her are what made the world great once; if we want a return to such status it will be on the backs of those who can live like she did.

The colors of each morning still dance with the clouds, the fields and trees still lie beyond the window where she stood.  She was the backbone of her family, a pillar in her community, a kind and gentle soul in a world sorely lacking both.  Whether you called her "Mom", "Grandma", or "Margaret", you miss her today just like you will miss her tomorrow and the days beyond.  But if you fill those days with lessons learned from the life she lived you'll do far more than simply miss her - you'll honor her.  Nothing would make her more proud.

Grandma Margaret surrounded by three great-granddaughters.