It’s been three months now since Bella took her last walk on August 26th, 2018. Then on September 15th, I took the leap and brought a new friend into our little household and the world changed again. Bringing Buddy home was the best way I … Continue reading The New Housemate
I was reminded today of a most wonderful and valuable gift I received as a child. I’ll call it mustriepen. It was, and remains, the most awful stuff known to the human digestive system. My Uncle Tom is the only person I am aware of on the planet that can make any that is reasonably enjoyable. For those not familiar with the food, mustriepen is a form of sausage ring made of pork remnants, cabbage, onion, breadcrumbs, blood, and spices. It came with my people from Luxembourg.
So why call it a wonderful and valuable gift? I work at university where we have a large population of Native students. Today in talking with one of those students I got to listen to a story that isn’t uncommon. The student told me about not getting to spend much time with relatives on the reservation growing up because the reservation was someplace not to be because poverty and addictions. Staying away kept them safe from such things. There’s value and truth to that. But, it also did something else. That student referred to themselves as white. It’s only now as a young adult that they are starting to look at who they are in their Indigenous heritage. We have many students who are blond haired, blued eyed Native Americans. When they grow up in their cultures and you ask who they are they will proudly say “I’m from Red Lake” or Leech Lake or wherever. Many will know how to introduce themselves in their ancestral language, maybe they even speak more. They know something of who they are. Now a reservation is simply a place, but it is one place where culture and history stands. It’s not the only one. There are many ways to grow up knowing who you are.
The thing is those blond haired, blued eyed Native kids who feel some connection to who they are speak with a sense of strength and grounding that the other kids don’t have. There are other Native kids like this one who want to know the way home and it’s a hard way to find.
I’m not Native but I grew up with mustriepen and a sense of identity that is unusual for white people today. My people had lived in Wisconsin since the mid to late 1800’s, but still identified as Luxembourgers. My dad and some of his generation could still speak the language. My grandma grew up speaking it. In the process of becoming white identity is lost.
I am thankful for that gift of mustriepen and I, once again, find myself asking– how do I support and guide these young people who want to know who they are?
The cats are gathering around my bed now. They can feel the change as much as I. It’s just us now– Tickle, Tonks, and myself. The world has changed again. It was a day like any other- gardening, a few things around the house, a … Continue reading The Last Few Blocks
As someone who’s worked many years both professionally and as a volunteer in nonprofits and leadership development, I need to give a shout out to WORT 89.9fm Community Radio in Madison, Wisconsin for really having the essentials together.
I’m not saying that WORT is perfect. I served on the board for several years when I lived in Madison and I can assure you that they are far from it, but they’ve got the key components and that became really clear recently when they faced a major incident at the station.
WORT is a community led, listener sponsored radio station in progressive Madison that went on the air in 1975 and has been riding the waves of operating in a community oriented space ever since. In the early morning hours of Sunday, August 5th some of the pain and fear that’s all too common in our reality today walked into the station. Someone came into the station and fired shots. A DJ was injured. Thankfully, the injury wasn’t serious and they were released from the hospital within a few hours.
Here’s where I become amazed.
The shooting happened in the early hours of Sunday morning, a time when the station would just have volunteers in the building and probably no paid staff.
I was thinking about this yesterday because of another board that I serve on. It’s a struggling organization and I agreed to serve on the board because I believe they can be better. Right now if there was an incident like the one WORT faced, I’m not sure what would happen.
We all hope none of our organizations ever have to face such moments of terror, but there is a lot to learn from WORT even for our every day operations.
WORT has had many ups and downs over its more than 40 years of operation. It’s taken a lot of work to get to the point that they could get stronger from disaster rather than weaker. Now is the time to work on these issues in your organization. Don’t wait for the emergency to happen.
Roughly 45lbs of food, that’s what came out of the garden that I share with my friend David yesterday. I will admit there was apple tree involved and apples are heavy. Still, it’s an impressive haul from just an average small town back yard. I haven’t been consistent about weighing the food that I harvest, but this makes me wonder. How much have I gotten from the garden this year and how much is there? Is it 200lbs, 500, a 1,000?
In any case, it the experience is worth its weight in gold. The dog and I walk the few blocks over to David’s house where I unleash Bella to let her lay in the shade while I weed and discover the bounty. Depending on the amount to harvest and the number of mosquitoes we may be there a few minutes or a few hours. If David is home we enjoy some visiting while we’re there.
Yesterday I found a butternut squash where I thought I’d accidentally killed off the vine. It was great find. Earlier this summer I was awed by lettuce that kept producing tasty leaves even in the hottest days of July. I can’t say that I ever find this kind of joy and wonder in the aisles of the supermarkets looking at the harvests trucked in from 500 miles away.
I spent most of my day yesterday in my kitchen watching movies on my computer while making spaghetti sauce for winter, freezing carrots, drying apples, baking granola, and making a bit of cucumber salad. I still have quite a bit of that 45 lbs of produce to preserve so I’ll be back at it tonight. But, it brings me such simple joy.
I spend the time engulfed the sweet and savory smells of my creations eyeing the wonders that I had the good fortune to harvest, being awed just that they’re real. I get to bathe in the memories other times and other kitchens with friends and family, so much laughter and so much love.
I think a lot about convenience. I think about how we were sold the idea of processed foods in the 1950’s. We were told they were convenient, time savers. Yes, I spent a wonderful day yesterday enjoying the food I grew and harvested. I got to spend time with my dog and cats, just being at home and being creative. I don’t know a better use of that time. I am glad I didn’t give it away to something else less valuable. I am confident too, that there will be times this winter that I will be glad of my pre-prepared sauces and soups and other wonders that I can heat in just a few minutes for supper that were made in my kitchen and not a science lab with food not food-like substances.
I grew up in rural Wisconsin in the 1970’s and 80’s in an all white town, except that it wasn’t, all white that is.
I don’t know exactly when I realized that little bit of information. I just know that even today I hear about rural communities being “all white” and I wonder. I know that was the story of the area that I grew up. That’s how we, at least we who identified as white, spoke. “Those people” whoever “those people” were lived somewhere else, maybe in Chicago or Milwaukee or up north on the reservations, but certainly not in our area.
While I was busy living in that White Town fantasy world, some of my friends were living the reality of being bi-racial, Latino, or Asian in a community that didn’t, and probably still doesn’t really recognize them for who they are. Instead, it asks that they pretend to be White or better yet, just be invisible or don’t be.
Well, these days I hang my hat in west central Minnesota. I’m still in a small town and I work with small towns around the state. Our rural communities are changing. The White population is slowly shrinking and the population of people of Color is growing. It’s going to continue that way into the foreseeable future. It wasn’t ok for us to expect people of Color to pretend to be White or to try to be invisible or to just not be thirty years ago. It’s absolutely unacceptable today.
Do we want rural communities to survive? If we do, then we need to take a look at ourselves and ask some questions.
I am sure there are many more questions to consider, but these give us a starting point. The key thing is that the fantasy White Town has always been a nightmare for some and is becoming a nightmare for all. If we want the nightmare to end, we need to look racism in the eye and tell it no more.
My friend Walt used to tell a story. He’d tell people of an Anishanaabe elder who spoke of the fire at the beginning of the world, “No” he’d say ,”before the beginning.” All the people sat together around that fire with the creator. One by … Continue reading Who Am I?
It was probably over twenty years ago that I had the idea of collecting stories from my father of his youth. My plan was to write a book.
Now, two decades later the story is changing. I never recorded those stories and the time has gone by. My Dad turned 90 this past March. His memories are leaving him. I got to see him this weekend. I made the trip home, almost 500 miles, for our family reunion and just to spend a little father-daughter time.
It’s a new time. I remember when I was a little girl watching Dad tossing the seed corn bags over his shoulder, throwing hay bales, working on farm machines, doing all the work that needed to be done. I remember him sitting in the recliner reading his Sunday paper, sitting in the hospital room watching Mom die, taking up his place in the kitchen after she was gone.
My Dad never graduated from high school. He wasn’t meant for the classroom. He’s always thought that because he struggled in school that he failed, that he was somehow dumb. Nothing could be further from the truth.
Dad’s journey started on a farm in Port Washington, Wisconsin the second of four children. His father died when Dad was seven. Within a few years the family had to move to town and Dad was working for neighboring farmers to make a little money and follow his passion as it became clear that school would never be the place for him.
When he grew up he joined the Navy where he served for several years before marrying my mom and starting a family. He eventually started farming with his father-in-law and went on to continue farming for over forty years while he also worked full time at a power plant and, for many years, sold seed corn.
He knew the fields like the back of his hand. He knew every road in the county. This weekend he and I went out for a ride. We went to visiting and stopped at a couple cemeteries. We talked about the fields. He confused the soybeans and the corn. We drove the roads he’s ridden for nearly a century. He told me that he didn’t recognize where we were.
But still, we traveled and we talked. When it was time for me to leave to return to my current home, he held my hand and looked my eyes and smiled. It was a smile I remembered. I saw it before. I saw it on his aunt’s face. Sr. Christine was in her 90’s when she held my hands for the last time and smiled with such sweetness and love, that combination of wisdom and childlike beauty that age creates.
My being is divided. I would both love to see my Dad again, to hold his hands, to hug him, to take another drive, to talk some more and I am mostly ready to say goodbye. He’s been and continues to be my hero. That never changes. The question remains what to do about that book?
In honor of Memorial Day, I thought I’d take on a topic I’ve not visited in a while.
Back in college I served in the student government association at my school. We were a committed crew. We gathered every Thursday night for multi-hour meetings fighting for students rights, our mix of conservatives, liberals, and radicals each determined to do what we believed was right.
Every Thursday night began with the Pledge of Allegiance which I, and a few others over the years, sat out. I still remember being taunted by my fellow student senators for choosing not to take part. What I remember best is the night that the flag wasn’t in the room. One of the conservatives happened to be wearing a shirt designed like an American flag. The group began to jokingly say the pledge in his direction. I exploded.
People who had taunted me for a political statement against war abroad and injustice at home were ready to pledge allegiance to a shirt probably made by slave labor. The pledge of allegiance isn’t just a poem. The flag isn’t just cloth. They were created to mean something. Sometimes protest is our strongest way to honor that meaning.
Just some thoughts.
Continuing my Turning Toward meditation this morning, I find myself asking if my attempt to look at my need to seek control might not have some aspects of seeking control within it. Still, it was an interesting exercise and I appreciate what I saw and am left to wonder what might be opening up.
This morning I mentally walked into the meditation acknowledging that I struggle with a need to find some control in my life. Many years ago it came to life in what maybe was properly labeled as anorexia. Recently, life has been pretty stressful and I saw, just for a moment, some old tools resurfacing. Twenty plus years after I thought my battle with my eating disorder was over I found myself thinking about how I could cut my food consumption in some unhealthy ways. Thankfully, today I have a wealth of other tools in my collection that I didn’t have two decades ago. I was able to look at myself and say “Woah, I don’t want to go down that path again. What’s happening here? What do I really need?” Thus, I meditate, write, balance time with good people and to myself, walk a lot, and with the spring am starting to garden again and eat the fresh veggies that I’ve grown in community with others. With help, I’ve also been able to address some of the things that have caused the stress. One by one they’re being taken care of and life is smoothing out again.
Still, I wonder about that control piece. Why do I need to be in charge? Why do I avoid asking for help? I’ve found some answers in meditation of late, but it feels there is more. Yet today, the question refused to be acknowledged. Instead, the meditation took me to the woods. It was the woodlot on the back of the farm where I grew up, just a tiny patch of trees, but big enough for a little girl’s dreams and firewood for the stove in winter.
I saw the box where we used to store some of wood cutting equipment, at least I think that’s what used to be in that box. I never did much with it. The woods was a play place for me mostly. It was where Hawkeye lived, a chickenhawk who was my symbol of grace, strength and freedom as a child. It was also home to unicorns, fairies, and an array of other magical beings as well as the creatures of this world. There were tall trees that had fallen and made wonderful climbing toys. It was a magical forest.
Hmmm…. maybe this morning’s meditation was simply reminding me of a time and place where I didn’t need control and it was ok
That’s the thought for the day. Thanks for reading. And, thanks to Feedspot for adding Sustainablelifeinaction to the to top 75 Sustainability Blogs! https://blog.feedspot.com/sustainability_blogs/
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