ULTIMATE DRIVING CHALLENGE

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I thought I had signed up for something called “Defensive Driving Class.” Sounded a bit combative to me. Something like Martial Arts on Wheels and not at all like our Minnesota Nice, where a typical lane merging on the highway often stalls because everyone is waving everyone else on ahead. “No, you first. Please.” “Oh please! Just go!”

But that’s what our insurance agent called it when she explained that by enrolling in the 8 hour class (2 four hour sessions), we would get an insurance discount while brushing up on our driving skills. My husband suggested that I be the designated driver/student, since his skills were more than sufficient and by attending I/we would be eligible for a 10% reduction in our premium over the next three years.

And since in one year alone, I crashed into 2 deer in one blow, 1 coyote, 1 lamppost, and a pedestrian (don’t ask), I not only had no recourse, but decided that I most likely needed some defense.

Thus it was that this past week I showed up two nights in a row, from 5:30 to 9:30 p.m. at the Community Education Center of Fergus Falls. As it turns out, the class was not, as previously described, entitled “Defensive Driving Class” but rather, “Driving Skills for Seniors.” Consequently there was a large chunk of class time devoted to senior citizen issues. Facts like – after 60 years of age, a driver needs 3 times more light to see adequately while behind the wheel. And a list of the primary safety issues to confront – narrowing of peripheral vision, night blindness, neck turning mobility, slower brain responses, tendency to get lost, and general confusion. Uff Da!

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Shari, the instructor was peppy and funny, regaled us with tales about her 8 children and aging parents, and threw out tootsie rolls to anyone who responded with a correct answer. She also put a huge car monkey wrench in my driving technique, which just might be unfixable at this late date. And scared me witless about the danger of even getting behind the wheel.

Weren’t we all trained in our high school driving course to assume, at the risk of life and limb, a 10-2 hand position? I was. Remember? You envision the face of a clock and put the left hand where the 10 would be and the right hand at the 2. I know the rules. 

But we seniors began driving before the advent of air bags, said Shari, and that fact, it seems, has changed everything. So now I know (and sort of wish I didn’t), that when that bag explodes it does so at an awesome 200 miles per hour. Which means that if our hands are in the “old timer” position, they will not only knock us senseless but most likely right out of this earthly existence. To further illustrate her point, and to ensure that our senior brains grasped the gravity, she cited some specific accidents in graphic detail. I can only say that you must never, ever, as a passenger, rest your feet upon the dashboard or engage in picking your nose.

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As our homework after the first evening class, we were instructed to observe our driving stance and if it was a 10-2, we must readjust to 8-4.  And not only that, we must be certain that we don’t grasp the wheel with our thumbs pointing towards our body. Eight Four, Thumbs Out. And don’t turn the wheel by rotating your hand up and above and around. Stay in 8-4 mode at all times. And one more thing. Make certain you body is over 10” away from the steering wheel.

I think of myself as a confident, responsible driver. In the past I regularly traversed the Big Sur highway in California with aplomb as well as the Los Angeles freeway system (well, the later when I was younger) and I have been 10-2 behind a wheel for almost 60 years. Like most motorists, I never consciously think about a “hand stance.” I think about whether I need to add arugula to the shopping list and if I have enough time to pick up a latte before garden club meeting and how mad I am about the pesticides that are killing the honey bees and how I need to write about that on my blog when I get home.

But now? I don’t know. I’m not certain I’m a comfortably adaptable Eight Four-er. It’s not easy to change. It’s like switching the side of the bed you sleep on. Or eating your dessert before your entrée. Or patting the top of your head while rubbing your tummy as you hop on one foot while whistling the Norwegian national anthem. If I knew it.

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Well, this is a fine dilemma. The certificate of completion states specifically that I now have the skills. But, honestly, I don’t.

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Posted in COMMUNITY, DRIVING, education, SENIOR CITIZENS | Leave a comment

KINDRED SPIRITS

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(Finally. Back from bronchial purgatory. Thanks for your wishes and concerns.)

When we first moved to Minnesota, Pastor Sarah of the Shepard of the Prairie Lutheran Church of Hickson, North Dakota (the familial family spiritual home base), invited me to be her guest at a day-long women’s retreat. The theme was Renew, Respond, and Rejoice and we covered the gamut from spiritual lessons to physical exercise. But the resource which resonated most for me that day, was a section on creating a personal sacred space, which came from the writings of an Inez Torres Davis, the Director of Justice in the Women of the ELCA organization.

Her pamphlet, which outlined the procedure for setting up a meditation/contemplation place, covered the subject in depth. I was amazed at her guidelines. They were progressive, almost “new-age” in a good way, all about energetic clearing, healing, essential oils, burning sage, and the like, but ultimately about creating/finding a place of peace and grace.

When I came home from the retreat, I immediately began to convert a nook above our stairwell, following Inez’ steps to cleanse, bless and decorate. A soft red Indian kilim for the floor, an old lace curtain for the side railing, a wicker chair from a garage sale with a silk brown pillow that was embroidered “Dream,” Tibetan chimes in the doorway. Upon a small slate table I plopped a Buddha garden ornament that my daughter had given me, a labyrinthe incense holder that had belonged to my son, and my father’s maracas that he had brought back from South America when I was a little girl (for the music). Just above the table I hung my favorite framed Christmas card of angels ascending past stained glass windows and a large photograph of filmily-swathed feet, entitled “Angel Descending.” I figured I had it covered, coming and going.

My sacred space looks out upon the front yard and the magnificent Elm tree. It is where I now write in my journal. Or meditate. Watch the birds. Or just sit and think. Whenever I am stressed, my husband will say – “Go to your room!”

And I wrote about the endeavor on my blog – giving credit and posting pictures of the progress. (See “Sacred Spaces,” July 15, 2011, on snowbirdredux.com to read more about the process.)  

Recently a friend asked me how to deal with grief. She turned to me because she knew that we had both lost sons, thinking I might best understand. Her son had died violently in a snow mobile accident as a teenager. My son wasted away with AIDS as an adult. There are no comparisons in the details, but a mother’s loss is loss is loss.

Struggling to find the words for her, any words, I thought of the sacred space and the place I use for contemplation, joy, and grief. I decided to print out the 13 page booklet that I had received a year and a half ago at the women’s retreat and take it to her at our writer’s group gathering. I dug it out of my file drawer, warmed up the computer, and while I waited for the printer to be ready, decided to check my emails.

The first entry was from an Inez Torres Davis.

Huh? I thought. The subject title was “Sacred Spaces.” What?

Confused, I clicked open to read the message.

Inez Torres Davis was confused too. She had been advised, she said, to occasionally “Google” herself in order to see what was “out there.” It had been a year and a half since she had done it, but now she was surprised to see a picture of herself alongside a picture of MY meditation space (who knows who, how, or why the internet gods decided to post that photo with HER bio) along with a link to MY blog (snowbirdredux.com) and the article about my project to create a sacred space based on her writings.

I sat at my computer, Inez Torres Davis’ pamphlet in my left hand, ready to print, wondering why this person would be writing to me, just at the very moment I was preparing to photocopy her writing, which was in reference to my blog entry of a year and a half ago.

Once we both straightened it all out, and delighted in the amazing cross confusion and synchronicity, we began to communicate. Inez is the Director of Justice for the Women of the ELCA. In that office she primarily works on race relations. In my youth I was not just involved, but deeply in the trenches of the civil rights movement. She writes about the United Nations Climate Change Conference in Copenhagen. If you have read this blog regularly, you know that I am passionate about the fate of our Mother Earth. Inez has worked with Bread for the World and writes beautifully about her experience in Zambia, Malawi and Tanzania. Huzzah, Kudos, Bravo for that. She is an AIDS advocate. I have been deeply in those trenches too. And, she is a passionate gardener. Need I say more.

Thank you Inez, my new friend.

(You can follow her writings (as I am now doing) at Inez Torres Davis on the Women of the ELCA Blog.)

 

 

 

 

Posted in COMMUNITY, CYBERSPACE, faith, friendship, introspection, religion, spirituality, writing | 1 Comment

THE CATALYST

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Looking back at my frivolous and naïve platitudes about weather and snow over the past two years, and my personal thrill of Minnesota extremes, I stand humiliated and repentant. What a silly-billy idiot I was until now. Enchanted with the promise of drama and the magnitude of weather of which-I-knew not, I bloviated (yes, guilty) about the excitation of Mother Nature’s fury.

Forgive me. I now wonder if my silly enthusiasm was the catalyst for the hubris I now must own. Oh, sorry. WE must endure.  For this snow is bearing down on the northern prairie with a vengeance fit for one and all.

Not to be all self-important about the possibility of my pitiful influence, but I did shout and celebrate and WOO-HOO about turbulence and bluster. I cheered on every little snowflake. I reveled and shouted with each clap of thunder. I knew not what I said and called for.

And here we are. April 15, 2013, two weeks to go until May, and Snowmegedden.

I’m sorry.

And not to suggest that I, personally, have magical powers. But there’s a part of me that feels a bit like the Sorcerer’s Apprentice. Remember the story? Goethe wrote it first, I believe, and Uncle Walt appropriated it for Mickey Mouse as a thrilling segment for Fantasia. Mickey, in the Disney version, gets weary of hauling pails of water and decides to experiment with some magic tricks he learned from his master. And of course, it all gets out of hand and disaster ensues until the sorcerer returns and puts it all to right, while admonishing that – “the powerful spirits should only be called by a Master.”

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I did stand at my upper window throughout the winter, channeling the Snow Queen, surveying my wintry domain, reveling in the splendor. And I did even pour through the Hans Christian Anderson Tale, immersing myself in the lore and re-imagining it as a modern novel. Just this past February I wrote about referencing “the wonder of wafting flakes, the cushy clumps of white upon the evergreens, all the novelty of exotic climatology to a California girl.” And the joy “of a wintry trail across the prairie,” along with the comfort of “saying the word – BRRR – as you peek outside while rubbing your hands together as you smell the bouquet of baking ginger cookies.”

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But enough is enough!

Words and thoughts are magic. I believe. I repent.

Starting today I’m lighting a candle and singing the praises of Idunn, Norse goddess of the Spring. I do believe, I do believe, I do believe . . .

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Posted in minnesota life, mythology, Norwegian, SNOW, storm | Leave a comment

READ ALL ABOUT IT!

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Some days you just hate to pick up the morning paper for all the disastrous news of the world.

We have a routine at our house. I put on my boots (this time of year), button my down jacket over my old red robe (ditto), pull the fuzzy black cap down over my ears and hike down the driveway to retrieve the Minneapolis/St. Paul Star Tribune from the edge of the street. He makes the coffee.

Back in our cozy chairs, I divvy up the parts. He gets the Sports and the Variety section (which he must read first so I can have the crossword after working my way through the Front, Local and Business). And then we trade. Except for the Sports.

As to the news of the world, today was a first, I believe. On the front page, four out of the five lead stories were cause to celebrate and the fifth wasn’t all bad. Of course, above the banner it proclaimed in bold type – “SNOW TURNS SPRING BACK INTO WHIMPER.” And the inner pages revealed – “Student goes on stabbing rampage” and “Iraq’s Al-Qaida joins fray in Syria” and even, “Magazine posts secret tape of McConnell mocking Ashley Judd.” That can’t be nice. But how many times can you remember that you chuckled or sighed appreciatively over the front page?

The right lead story, reprinted from Justin Gillis in the New York Times, proclaimed that a new guideline entitled The Next Generation Science Standards plans to include a focus on teaching climate change and evolution in public schools. Be still my heart.

This new tact suggests “introducing climate science into the curriculum starting in middle school, and teaching high school students in detail about the effects of human activity on climate.” And it goes on to state that the guidelines were devised to “combat widespread scientific ignorance, standardize teaching among disparate states and raise the number of high school graduates who choose scientific and technical majors in college, a critical issue for the country’s economic welfare.”

Is it just possible that there is hope for the planet? That it’s not too late to redirect our focus towards solving the energy crisis and saving the planet through a younger generation who will embrace the smart and economical “greening” of the earth? Not only because they are less set in the ways of diesel fuel and coal production, but because they will have actually been schooled in scientific and “economic welfare?”

The story just below the one on climate, places more hope in the arms of our youth. It begins with the headline – “Mohamed joins Olivia, Mason in state’s top 100 baby names.” The article explains that – “From 2000 to 2010, the number of residents of color grew 55 percent, and Minnesota’s fast-growing Somali population is the largest in the United States.” Move over Ole and Lena. I personally think that diversity makes us strong. If we could just move away from the “us and them” mentality … And yes, I know I’m an idealist.

The other front page news included an emphasis by some politicians who warned against “budget savings that might shift costs to our seniors, or parents raising children with disabilities,” (thank you for that) and some hopeful thoughts about a shift in the intractability of a gun control debate. Two positive points out of Washington.

What a good day.

Now about that snow and spring and whimpering …

Posted in COMMUNITY, education, global warming, introspection, minnesota life, politics, writing | Leave a comment

CONVERSATION AMONG STRANGERS

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I recently participated in a group where the discussion topic was an examination of spirituality. How to find it? Is it important? What is it like? Where is it? Does it exist?

You wouldn’t have been surprised to hear words like meditation, prayer, and reverence come to mind. And they did to a small degree. But for the most part the sharing centered on what we might deem “the simple pleasures.” The thrill of the first daffodil in spring. The touching gesture of a stranger, as in “random acts of kindness.” My husband bringing me a treat, just at the perfect moment, as I sit hunched over my computer. Hugging my daughter, inhaling her sweet scent, fresh from the playground.

It is those seemingly little things that I relate to, along with mystical moments of collective consciousness.

The quote I liked best from that day was by Pierre Teiland de Chardin – “We are not human beings having a spiritual experience. We are spiritual beings having a human experience.” Amen.

It reminded me of a time on a train. I was traveling alone up the California coast when the voice over the intercom announced that we would be pulling aside and stopping in order to let freight cars pass. And it would be an hour perhaps, or more, as the other train had experienced mechanical difficulty but had precedence.  Annoyance, consternation, it was late at night. We all had friends and relatives waiting at the northern station.

But what occurred as the result of this delay became, instead of a nasty irritation, a transcendental exchange among strangers. Assume that the stars were aligned, just so, that night. Or some highly spiritual being was the catalyst aboard. Or merely that the political science professor who had been my seatmate charmed the steward into pulling out some wine and snacks, for our trouble. Whatever the reason, magic ensued. Something divine happened. Every person on that stalled railroad car connected and I would guess, felt the better for it and would ever after remember it as a spiritual moment in time.

I had been steeped in this remembrance while continuing to contemplate the topic of spirituality this past week, when I received a blog entry from Shelley Odendahl, who I met at a writer’s workshop last year. I have been following her writing ever since. We are both attuned and particularly interested in the nuances which make up a journey through life. Hence her blog, which is entitled – REALIZE YOUR DREAMS.

I asked Shelly if I might share her latest offering. It’s another example of a magical moment in time. It follows:

CONVERSATION AMONG STRANGERS

“You know how it is when you sit in a waiting room at a doctor’s office? Everybody just keeps to their own little space. Sometimes there is a nod of the head, or handing over of a newspaper, but mostly there’s just silence.

Yesterday I was part of a friendly group that kicked the silence model right out the door. It started when two retirement-aged women started talking and comparing notes on something. I put down my Kindle and joined in. A man came in and he participated in the conversation too. One of the women’s husband and daughter entered, so we all introduced ourselves. (Yes, we actually shared names in the doctor’s waiting room…unheard of!) a couple of people noted how much fun we were having, and one called it a party. It was almost sad when the nurse came to call somebody into the examination room and they had to leave. While her mother saw the doctor, the daughter and I had a nice conversation about retailing. After they left, one of the women who had been telling us about her frustrating medical condition popped her head in before she left to let me know she was doing much better. Then I was alone in the room.

Before long, an elderly man came in, preparing to sit in the usual silence. I wasn’t ready to let the conversation end, so I asked him a question. Before long, he was telling me about his life – he was in his nineties and was upset he couldn’t do all the things he used to be able to do. He had a lot of physical complaints and didn’t seem to have much companionship in life. I am hoping that maybe a brief show of interest from a stranger may have given him just a little comfort. I wished him well.

When I went back to college a few years ago, I chose to major in Communication Studies. I became passionate about the power of honest communication and authentic interactions to change the world. Yesterday we might not have made any big, outright changes, but together a small group of people helped make a positive impact on each other’s day. That has to be a contribution to what is right in the world.” Another Amen.

You can follow Shelley’s blog at: “Shelley O. at Realize Your Dreams.Wordpress.com” and order her book on Amazon, “TRAVELING TOGETHER: CLIFF AND ME AND THE MOTORCYCLE MAKES THREE,” which is described as a 1980’s love story.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Posted in COMMUNITY, faith, favorite things, friendship, introspection, spirituality | 1 Comment

THE AVENGER

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When Thumper explained to Bambi about the forest folk who were “twitterpatted,” he wasn’t just expounding on the thrill of new love. He was referencing the joy and excitement of new life in the Spring.

In Spring worms emerge from the earth, green buds appear, birds chirp, flowers begin to bloom. And all of humankind feels a skip in the step and a lightness in the heart.

It happens every year. Or does it?

Today was officially the first day of Spring. But not in Minnesota. Take a look.

The Picnic Table?

THE PICNIC TABLE?

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THE SHOP DOOR?

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PATH TO THE GARAGE?

FIRST DAY OF SPRING!

Uffda!

I’m thinking it might just be the fault of Tjasse, the storm god. He certainly raged this past weekend, blizzarding across our skies from the west, wailing through the firs and pines. Dumping untold drifts of white and holding us hostage to his bitter cold.

Tjasse was the Norse giant who one fine day captured Idunn, wife of Braggi, the god of poetry. Beauteous Idunn happened to be the keeper of the Apples of Youth and all of the Aesir depended on their magical power. When Tjasse, disguised as an eagle, swept down and captured this lovely prize, it only figured that the Gods would then begin to fade, turn weary and dull, age and grow dim.

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The story proceeds with much mischief making from the trickster, Loki and tragedy ahead for our storm god, Tjasse, who was finally lured aloft, racing in pursuit through the heavens until he flew right into the flames of a mighty fire set by the gods of Asgard.

But mythmakers know that the old tales never die. They continue to circle round and round in our collective consciousness, slightly askance and just out of sight.

The weathermen are puzzled. I think I know who is to blame.

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Posted in global warming, minnesota life, mythology, Norwegian, SNOW, storm, WEATHER | 1 Comment

BOSSY PANTS II

When I was 7, 8 10, thereabouts, I was the one in the gang to write, cast, direct and star in the neighborhood productions. We had different venues. The Burgess yard was perfect for western dramas. Their dad, a frustrated artist, had built a virtual set in the backyard, replete with pond that featured a fountain and bridge, surrounded by undulating mounds of grass. You could throw yourself down behind the rise, hugging the ground, while aiming a Roy Rogers cap gun at the villain. I’ve forgotten the gist of the script now, but I clearly remember furiously penciling the dialog and feeling a certain despondency when my cast didn’t measure up to my art.

The Hill kids had a large expansive space with a clothes line that revolved on casters, providing an array of backdrops, curtains and scrims for our various acts. The variety show, mainly musical numbers culled from the movies of the day, featured Betty Grable/Dan Daley tunes, magic? acts and tricks with Tippy the dog.

We sold tickets (handmade and brightly crayoned) to the neighbors, family, and local merchants. Bless their hearts. They were enthusiastic. As I recall.

Given this background then, is it any wonder that I succumbed last year to the challenge to begin a farmer’s market in Fergus Falls. “Hey kids. We can put on a show!”

I was motivated of course, by the grand farmer’s market festivals in California and other parts of the country. The town of San Luis Obispo, our last stop on the west coast, closed down three blocks of the main street each Friday night and lined both sides with vendors. There were vegetable stands and plants, musicians, neck massagers, political activists, yummies to eat on the spot, all manner of hand-made crafts. It was an obstacle course and one had to elbow a path through the throngs of happy shoppers and celebrants.

Lynn and Dave, two of my friends from the local garden club, had the same dream. Here in Fergus Falls, we reasoned, all we had to do was beat a few drums and they would come. Right?

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Imagine our surprise when there were only two tables that first Saturday. And pitiful dribs and drabs of buyer/visitors all day. By the end of the season, it’s true, we had built up to 10 vendors and they were all quite happy with their proceeds. But it wasn’t my dream and I definitely didn’t feel that we had “put on a show.”

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But last Fall when I was ready to ring down the curtain and fade away, I received a call from Janet at the county department of health, who had noticed our paltry effort and was interested in helping to promote the market. Janet’s interest was in building community relationships with local food producers, providing growers with a source to market their wares, ensuring local consumers an opportunity for fresh, healthy food, all the time putting local money back into the community. In other words – a focus on health, wealth, social connectedness and our environment.

Multiple meetings later, Lynn and Dave and I are now fired up and ready to go.

For one thing, we now realize that we have to do a great deal more than just “putting out the word” and “knowing they will come.” Not only have we joined the Minnesota Farmer’s Market Association, but we’re also now a part of an organization called Minnesota Grown, which means that we have access to educational guidelines and also cool stickers and signs.

A week ago we hosted a brunch and networking gathering for farmer’s markets around the state. Our keynote speaker was Lynda Annoreno from the Fresh Start Farmer’s Market of Baudette. Lynda moved to the small community near Lake of the Woods after 30 years in Arizona and like myself, decided she wanted to “put on a show.” Why not?

But Lynda managed to grow her market into over 30 vendors in one season with total sales of $250,000. I know. WHAT? I was skeptical until I heard her speak and tell her story.

Her basic premise throughout was that she was offering OPPORTUNITY to everyone in the community. She never asked for money. She gave the local hardware store an opportunity to advertise by providing 300 cloth shopping bags with their logo. She let the local bus service introduce senior riders to their service by giving them an opportunity to transport shoppers for no fee on market Saturdays. She gave the school art department an opportunity to design the market logo, and the Chamber of Commerce an opportunity to award the winner with a $50 coupon for local merchandise. The local café had an opportunity to advertise by bringing their popcorn machine and offering it in logo-ed bags. A seed company donated 5 pounds of bean seeds for a “Spilling the Beans” event and the fish and tackle store provided a hundred lures (with their logo, of course) for Father’s Day. And that’s just a sampling of the opportunities.

Thank you Lynda. You’re the best kind of Bossy Pants. I surrender the crown.

 

 

Posted in COMMUNITY, education, favorite things, food, Gardening, HEALTH, IMAGINATION, minnesota life | 3 Comments

FOOD FIGHT

When I was still in high school, an enormous event happened in a neighboring community. Disneyland opened.

Relatives from the far northern prairies now had another grand reason to visit, other than soaking up the California sunshine, and my family promptly concocted our own personal Disney tour agenda and schedule. First a stop at the railroad station just inside the main gate to board the train which circled the park, allowing an enticing glimpse of each separate, themed kingdom. Then a stroll down Main Street and a turn to the left into Adventureland to board the Jungle Boat Cruise. Followed by a tromp over Tom Sawyer’s Island in the middle of Frontierland, which was reached either by Indian canoes, Huckleberry Finn’s raft or the grand Mark Twain steamer boat.  Next we entered Fantasyland where we flew with Peter Pan and explored Sleeping Beauty’s Castle, and finally, Tomorrowland where we boarded the Submarine to explore watery worlds.

Of course there were other marvelous exhibits and rides interspersed in this visit to Uncle Walt’s Magic Kingdom and one of my favorites was Monsanto’s House of the Future. As a revolving stage turned, highlighted by happy tunes, we sat and marveled at the scientific advancements we could soon expect.  All manner of space age improvements. The promise of devices to enhance our life, one of which they called the “microwave oven.”  And all of this through the great benevolence of something called “Monsanto!” It had a grand, magnificent sound – like Magic and Matterhorn and Mickey.

Fifty-eight years later, Monsanto is still out in front, working their magic for our future. Or are they?

I thought about that promise last week when their name and the subject of GMO’s came up in a surprisingly adversarial e-mail onslaught of Master Gardeners and Master Gardener interns in Minnesota. The topic of the week in the MG core course had been Weed Abatement, and it covered the gamut of herbicides and pesticides as well as good gardening practices and integrated pest management.

GMO’s incidentally, refer to “genetically modified organisms,” which means that the “hybrid” in question has had it’s DNA altered by genetic engineering to make it more disease, pest or chemical resistant. It might include genetic material from animals, bacteria, as well as different species of plants. And who is one of the bigger players in creating this better new world of the future? You guessed it. Monsanto.

And so the Master Gardener question was asked (and consequently set off quite a heated debate)  – “How are we incorporating this knowledge into our program? And what should we know? And how does it affect us?”

I was, frankly, caught off guard and surprised about the diversity of opinion. But I might add – hurrah for challenge, examination, cross-examination and discussion! And let’s not forget about Critical Thinking?

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I am hardly an expert in this delicate and complex subject, but since it affects our health and our world, I offer the following reflections.

On the pro/thank-the-gods-for-Monsanto side is the argument that “-to condemn all GMO crops is like trying to turn the clock back.” And – “GMO’s have contributed to our quality of life and millions of people in Africa are alive because they have GMO corn to eat.”   Or – “farmers have been able to produce record crops because of the GMO seeds which are pre-treated with herbicides and pesticides.”

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In a further controversy last year, the passage of a proposition on the California ballot would have required that all genetically modified foods for sale be labeled as such. After all – China, Saudi Arabia, South Korea, Japan, Australia, New Zealand, Russia, India, Chile, and many European countries, already have those guidelines as law. Monsanto kicked in 44 million to defeat the measure and it failed. It was also determined that they had given 10 million in research grants to the University of California at Davis. That’s a lot of microwaves.

On the con/what-were-the gods-thinking side of the argument, this past November I read in the Twin Cities Star Tribune that many farmers in Minnesota had experienced crop failures and were going to be forced to use more – and sometimes more toxic – chemicals to protect their crops. And “Why?” – the article went on – “Because pests have done what nature always does – adapt. Just as some bacteria have become resistant to antibiotic drugs, a growing number of superweeds and super bugs in the nation’s farm fields are proving invulnerable to the tons of pesticides that go hand in hand with genetically modified seeds.”

Also in the Star Tribune last year – “Between 1999 and 2010, the same period in which so-called GMO crops became the norm for farmers, the number of monarch butterfly eggs declined by an estimated 81 percent across the Midwest, the researchers say. That’s because milkweed – the host plant for the eggs and caterpillars produced by one of the most gaudy and widely recognized of all North American butterflies – has nearly disappeared from farm fields, they found.”

Now I’m in the food fight too.

MONARCH! MICKEY! MILKWEED! MATTERHORN! MAGIC!

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Posted in education, favorite things, food, Gardening, HEALTH, Master Gardeners, minnesota life | 1 Comment

“NEXT ONE PLEASE”

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I am not alone in decrying the dumbing down of language through tweets and twitters. There is something disconcerting about imagining an entire generation ensconced in robot-speak, – “R U OK, LOL” – and then getting lazy in life and sinking permanently into abbreviated, mechanical discourse.

The HAL of “2001 A Space Odyssey,” Stanley Kubrick’s brilliant  film about the future, spoke in dulcet tones, poetically cajoling his fellow travelers. No mechanical computer lingo for him. He stretched his sentences into eloquent pleas, outsmarted his shipmates, and managed to create more than a semblance of humanity. Can you imagine how this epic, symbolic struggle between man and machine might have thudded into obscurity if Hal had only spoken in tweet dialog? Gone would be the mythic narrative that tripped open all manner of thought about human evolution and artificial intelligence.

In other words, technology did not need to be portrayed or emulated by machine-speak at the expense of language. But thanks to Microsoft, that is exactly what has happened in our classrooms and service clubs today.

It’s only been this past year that I have regularly encountered something called PowerPoint Presentation. Now I see it everywhere. At garden club. Even at church. If someone is going to give a speech, it apparently is expected. A mark of professional superiority. Marketed in software from Microsoft. And I now find myself quietly groaning every time I see the screen and the laptop and the cords coming out.

There is a reason that the process has been dubbed “Death by PowerPoint” and “PowerPoint Hell.” However much I might be longing to see photos of all the newest hydrangeas, a presentation using endless slides usually leaves me irritable and bored at best. I want the Story not the list of varieties. The language and nuance of the growing experience.

If you’ve been an international judge for the United Nations in Kosovo, please don’t show me pictures of your passport and various street signs. Tell me about the drama and the conflict and the resolutions. Please don’t reduce complex issues into bullet points.

Can you imagine if Lincoln had begun the Gettysburg Address by pointing at a screen showing a calendar with a date circled, instead of beginning – “Four score and seven years ago…”?

There’s a good reason why PowerPoint has been called a “prop for poor speakers.” HAR HAR BET U TWT & TTR, LOL.

Please. Tell me a story…

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Posted in education, introspection, STORY TELLING, techno-geeks | 1 Comment

THE SNOW QUEEN’S PALACE

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Here on my hill, looking out at crystals and icicles, I can imagine I am the Snow Queen surveying my wintry domain. It’s 40 below with the wind chill tonight and I need to use snowshoes to refill the bird feeders. And except for the darn, bloody-badly-designed straps, I’m beginning to get the hang of it. Step high, step high, don’t drag.

The last time we ventured in the car down our slope-y driveway, we got stuck on the return trip. T.M. shoveled and sprinkled cat litter and shoveled some more. To no avail. The van continued to scream bloody murder from it’s old and evidently fragile transmission. Finally with the addition of sheets of cardboard jammed beneath the tires, it gave a final roar and lurched forward. It’s been garage bound ever since.

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And we’ve been housebound, except when friends come and pick us up for farmer’s market meetings and live stream opera from the Met in Fargo, and Literary Quiz Night at the local library. And the like. But for the most part and after the recent winter blinds-down practice, I’m into a new and heightened phase of claustrophobia (See “46 Days ‘til Spring”).

I doubt the Snow Queen had such difficulties. I picture her wrapped snuggly into a polar bear throw, seated in her crystalline sleigh, pulled by two albino reindeer, bells a-jingling. Out and about in her winter wonderland.

It may look like a winter wonderland here on Mt. Faith, but there is another aspect of this new Minnesota life that we had not bargained for. Yesterday I caught a hint of the dilemma at the tale-end of the Valley News Live broadcast when the reporter concluded with something about the dangers of icicles.

Well, I thought, they certainly look lethal. Magical, but possibly dangerous.

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I vowed not to ever stand directly beneath the eaves. Yet a certain niggling concern later in the day, led me to good old google and what I found was shocking. Icicles, it seems, mean ICE DAMS. And ice dams can “Tear off gutters, loosen shingles, cause water to back up and pour into the house and the results aren’t pretty!” Beyond that “They lead to peeling paint, warped floors, sagging ceilings, mold and mildew.”

The directives were just as dour. Clear snow from roof with a roof rake. That’s just the start.

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Followed by recommendations about insulation and air flow (or not?) and other technicalities that sound problematic and expensive and far beyond our 70-ish California expertise.

I always wondered why the Snow Queen captured the boy, Kay. Hans Christian Anderson doesn’t specify what she had in mind, nor what Kay did after he got to the palace, other than languishing in cold rooms, “dragging some sharp flat pieces of ice which he placed in all sorts of patterns, trying to make something out of them.”

I had hoped that she wasn’t some sort of cougar pedophile. She did, Anderson tells us, kiss him and have him sleep at her feet. That’s suspicious in itself.

But now I suspect I know the real reason for his captivity. Who better than a young agile lad to get up on that palace roof and rake. And climb through the attic and mend the air spaces and insulation. The “pieces of ice” undoubtedly were the broken off icicles, for want of anything better, cleverly turned into playthings.

The Snow Queen wasn’t a pervert. She was an opportunist.

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Posted in Claustrophobia, Favorites Books, introspection, minnesota life, mythology, SNOW, WEATHER | 1 Comment