From Amber Waves of Grain to Honey Bunches of ??

August 31, 2010

Every time I see a cereal commercial I can’t help but get irritated by all those smiling faces who are “feeding America,” surrounded by machinery churning out over processed, sugary, distorted grains, expecting us to believe it is breakfast food. More insulting is they want us to believe all the additives, preservatives, and dextrose is a healthy way to start the day.

I know it is naïve of me to think that the average American gives a fig  about how and where our food is grown. I am amazed how many people think it magically appears on grocer’s shelves in convenient packages for us to buy at outrageous prices, shlep, consume, and believe we are nourishing our bodies. Advertisers lead us to believe that food is manufactured by cheerful factory workers.

In the real world, every spring, thousands of farmers gamble their savings, spending hard-earned cash purchasing corn, sunflower, wheat, oat, flax, and rye seeds.  Additional money goes to gas, machinery parts and sometimes new equipment that needs replacement.  The output of capital to begin the growing season is enormous.

Each day begins with the first sliver of light, ending with farmers begging for a few extra minutes of daylight, long after the sun has set, to finish another round of plowing and planting.

Hopes and dreams of a good crop ride on plentiful rain to nourish the seedlings. Worry sets in when black clouds threaten hail instead of moisture. Will there be an infestation of black rot, grasshoppers, or other parasites dropping out of nowhere destroying crops?

As harvest draws near, swather sickle bar blades are sharpened, and chipped ones replaced. It fascinated me watching stalks of grain fall on to  the rotating canvas as they were cut, dropping  in neat, tidy, rows on the stubble, waiting for the sun to finish ripening heads of grain bursting at their seams.

Of all the dirty jobs on a farm, I would rate combining as the worst.  These behemoths separate the grain from the stalks and chaff. In years of bumper crops, trucks drove along side combines as grain augured directly into truck beds.  Lean years would mean watching and waiting for dad to wave me in when the hopper was full.

Teeming trucks of grain empty their load into granaries to be stored, and sold when stock market prices rise.  On rare occasion, prices were high during harvest, and dad would haul our return directly to the grain elevators where it was inspected for weed content, weight, size, and color of grain.

Amber Waves of Grain

Agrarian livelihoods depend on rain, quality of grain, stock market prices, political power plays, and economic and climate conditions in far-flung places around the globe.  These are little known facts to the average person.

Farmers do not clock in and out of a job.  Their jobs begin before dawn and end after sunset 7 days a week. Meals are eaten in the field under the shade of a tractor. Unrelenting intense heat and itchy grain dust are constant companions. Health hazards, including sun stroke, heat exhaustion, loss of hearing, and farmers lung are common. At the end of the day clothing, hair, and bodies are dusted before entering the house.

All this begs the question, what the —– happens to grain from field to table?  It takes a chemist to understand and interpret the ingredients on a box of corn flakes. It is a fact that breakfast cereals have almost no nutritional value due to over processing. Their extremely high sugar content, and additives have been highly suspected to be a health hazard. Most of it is fluff and no substance, selling at exorbitant prices. We are feeding our children large doses of sugar for breakfast which makes them noticeably hyper.  It is well-known that sugar has an adverse affect on our nervous systems.

Corporations, who process food,  do not have to gamble their money on seed, weather, political climate, and economic conditions.  They produce “food” that is nearly devoid of nutritional value, enhanced with addictive ingredients, and contains huge amounts of dextrose. Seems Honey Bunches of Oats might keep America undernourished and hyper.

Buffalo! Still Providing

August 17, 2010

“Tis A Privilege To Live In Colorado” was the state’s tag line for many years.  Using that slogan, media outlets and advertising companies, effectively drew tourists and businesses to our state. The only problem was, western and northern Colorado benefited greatly, while points south of Colorado Springs were neglected.

Recently an ad hoc group representing five counties in south central Colorado banded together for the purpose of increasing tourism south of Colorado Springs.  “Gees, it’s like the world ends for northern Colorado and the rest of the country south of Colorado Springs.” quips Gloria from Freemont County.

Our meetings are held monthly rotating between the 5 counties. Most destinations are around a 2 hour drive through incredibly beautiful country side. I am in heaven each time I take to the small, narrow, highway to Westcliffe or LaVeta.  Tons of dirt and gravel roads entice me to take a left hand turn on a back road where I know I will discover another haven, another spot to soothe my ruffled feathers, another magic moment.

My first trip to Westcliffe was beyond my wildest expectations.   Sweet, early morning rain had escalated to a blustery down pour as I headed out of my loft. By the time I reached the edge of town my windshield wipers were working overtime.  “Great,” I thought. We need all the rain we can get.

Turning onto a small highway heading northwest, the weather was reduced to drizzle with fog playing hide and seek between canyons and arroyos. Reminded me of Sherlock Holmes mystery movies, wherein Dr. Watson is roaming the foggy Scottish moors.

Suddenly a break in the mist revealed a rare sight. Buffalo! This was either a hallucination or a mystery. I brought my car to a screeching halt half way into the ditch, and ran to the other side of the road mouth agape. The haze slowly lifted revealing a huge herd of lazing buffalo. This was no mystery. There were real buffalo on the moors; a walking a tourist attraction.

Tatonka

Fortunately or unfortunately I could not get very close.  Even though buffalo weigh over 2 tons they have been clocked running 45-50 mph, can turn on a dime and will charge to death anything in their path.

Naturally, I had my camera at the ready, taking ample advantage of my happenstance. I didn’t want to be late for the meeting, but how could I pass up these *beastly beauties on hoof?  I watched in amazement the agility and grace these huge bison displayed moving toward the stream to quench their thirst, and gently nuzzling their young.

Images of these beasts remained with me for several days.  These once proud animals that roamed the Great Plains, feeding and clothing Native Americans, are now contained behind re-enforced fences on buffalo ranches. Buffalo burgers and steaks appear on menus in upscale restaurants.  Specialty stores tout fashionable outer wear made of bison hides at exorbitant prices, and Native Americans, whose existence relied on their beloved tatonka, are on reservations.

Western images of a home on the range is glorified in movies and books, but the reality is, it is a part of our painful history.

*This photo was entered in a photography show which placed second.

Not Everyone Screamed for Ice Cream

August 9, 2010

Join Us For: Concert & Grill Event

Date:  Sunday, August 1st

Time:  4:00 p.m.

Place:  Joan & Al’s home

I arrived Colorado time greeted by Al’s calm, smiling face. Joan’s voice was heard in the background urging people to, “Please help yourself to corn chips.  The dip is cheezy with zesty thingies in it. I hope you like the guacamole. It’s freshly made, but I forgot the cilantro. There are Nacho cheese and plain Nacho chips to go with the guacamole.”

Entering the lower deck I recognized several people, but there were a few faces I had never seen.  Linda was busy in the kitchen putting finishing touches on several trays of food. With plate in hand she greeted me with a warm hug and began filling my plate with grilled shrimp. Linda is a hard worker, a survivor of many hardships, and I consider her one of the beautiful people. Her generosity of spirit and kind heartedness endears her to all of us.

Two very large tables were already over flowing with various dishes and platters stacked high with food. Judging by the enormous amounts of provisions I was imagining the house and decks would soon be over flowing with at least 100 people.

“Oh Arlys, I’d like to introduce you to everyone. Arlys, this is everyone. Everyone, this is Arlys.  She is new in town, does wonderful photography, has a unique style of painting and makes luscious designs in fabric.” says Joan in passing,  vegies and dip in tow heading towards the deck. Several people nod a greeting.

I work my way towards the cole-slaw and huge pieces of grilled drum sticks and thighs. Oooh, my kind of chicken. None of that dry, white meat that sticks in one’s throat. My favorite, hummus and savory crackers, just had to have a bit. Leafy green salad instead of ice berg! Whoa. This is a feast. I grabbed a mini puff and corn muffin to top off my meal.

“Hi darlin,” cries Trish as she waves me over to her table. Trish, President of the Trinidad Area Arts Council, works like a donkey keeping two galleries afloat.  It is my enormous pleasure and privilege working with her as a board member.  Her knowledge and expertise of curating and hanging art shows is what makes our art community a success.

Trish is not only an extremely talented potter, her business savvy selling art work is superlative.   She knows every art patron in town, their taste in artwork and favorite artist. She has a knack for ensuring they attend all the right shows.

I am about to join Trish when Joan sweeps through the room announcing, “Al just grilled brats, hot dogs and Polish sausage. Let me serve you while they’re hot.” Linda follows listing condiments and asks if you prefer whole wheat or white hot dog buns. Trish and I declined, gesturing to let her know, our plates were full.

Trish introduced me to Tom, a local business owner, and his wife Maria, a teacher, who are also fairly new to Trinidad. Approaching the table with packed plates are Ray and Shana, owners of  the “Old Pass Art Gallery” in Raton, New Mexico. Raton is a mere 17 miles from Trinidad, and you must drive over Raton Pass, which can get very nasty in the winter, to get to Raton.

Originally from San Francisco, Ray owned  several very successful art galleries in the Bay Area before making Raton his home. He is a fantastic curator, and finds exceptionally talented artists in the hinter-lands of North Central New Mexico.   His tag line reads, “Welcome to Raton where we’re  up to our Pass in Art.”

Conversation turns to the bear nuisance.  Several home owners in the area have awakened to hungry bears knocking on their doors. Pat was hilarious recounting how she was expecting visitors, and to her surprise thee bears were on the other side of the door instead. We all laughed and began calling her Goldie Locks.

“Oh Linda, the grilled pineapple is ready.  Can you please pass those juicy slices around?”  shouts Joan from the deck. Everyone at the table was half way through their meal, remarking how much food had been prepared.  Little did we realize that Joan and Al were just gearing up.

Ken, Trishs’ husband, slipped through the patio door with a glass of wine for Trish and a bottle of beer for himself. He learned the intricate craft of carving flutes from a master carver and has quite a following. His designs and craftsman ship are flawless as well as extraordinarily beautiful.

My eyes were drawn to the stairs where bold, wild flowers on a white back ground  were descending to join us. It was Sheigla, looking very Carmen Mirandaesque, informing us there was delicious dips and crackers on the upper deck along with petite nibbles of several kinds of cheeses.

Sheigla

Sheigla, an accomplished artist, decided to make Trinidad her home over 7 years ago. Her resume includes shows in well-known galleries in Paris, New York, Rome, San Francisco, Dallas, and Denver.  It is difficult to maintain a flower garden at this altitude, and I am positive she was unaware how she made the perfect walking garden.

Trish and I were discussing the feasibility of inviting artists from Taos for our fall show, when Al began dishing out hamburgers, and all the fixin’s.  Several of us declined as we were almost finished eating, and were OMGing that more food was on its way. We began to giggle in disbelief at the amount of provisions being served. Ken quickly pointed out that he had discovered to die for potato salad behind a platter of cream cheese covered in picca pepper sauce surrounded by three sizes of pretzels. Oh, yeah, just what we needed.

Several more people arrived. Yes, in Colorado it isn’t that it is fashionable to be late, it is just that, well, that’s the way it is.  A photographer and wood-carver were welcomed to the festivities. They too were a bit overwhelmed by the incredible spread before them.

We all looked up in unison as a large dish came towards the table. As it came closer Ray peeked out from the side exclaiming he had found the most interesting dish, and was sure it was dessert. He was about to dig into scrumptious mounds of crumbles when Joan began,  “Oh, I hope you like the cobbler.  I made it with fresh pears, cranberries and lots of other yummy things I just can’t remember right now. Brownies and cup cakes are right beside the vegies and dip.  I hope you all can find the vegies and dip along with the brownies.”

Even though all of us were stuffed  we could not resist the fruity smell of the cobbler. We took very small portions, and began laughing, noting  there was enough food for a battalion.

Dog lover, Marie, was supplying a side-splitting story about a stranger who had wandered into her yard, and was afraid of her poodle and threatened to hit her dog with his man purse. As laughter subsided Al began serving steak. “The rare steak is on the left, the medium rare is in the middle and the right has well done steaks.” We shook our heads disbelief.

Joan entered from the opposite direction carrying a large dish with pot holders. “You must have a portion of this baked dish of fresh cauliflower from the farmers market along with fresh onions, and I forget what kind of cheese I used. It has some sort of cheese that is terribly delicious.” The food just kept coming.

The sun was fading signaling it was time for the musician to tune up. We grabbed chairs and gathered round the guitarist as he began setting up his equipment on the lawn. Joan had plates at the ready prodding us to “Please take a piece of corn on the cob, and a piece of water mellon to nosh on during the concert.”

Before the entertainment part of the evening began Joan thanked everyone for RSVPing.

“Which we didn’t.” Says Trish.

“Of course you did. You said maybe.” Replies Joan.

Chef  Dame Joan

Joan can only  be described as the grande dame of Trinidad. Trish dubbed her St. Joan, patron of local artists.  Joan and Al’s home is filled with clay totem poles crafted by Trish,  Doug Holdread fine art, photos by Michelle Goodall,,,,,,, yes, the list is very long.

Many of her art purchases are sent to her daughter in Philadelphia where Joan was born.  Her priority is educating her child and grand children, whom have never been west, that there is indeed life and culture west of the Mississippi. She settled in Trinidad via Philadelphia, New York and California, taking to all things western like a duck to water.

Joan is an extraordinary woman. She is founder of Concerts for a Cause which brings live music to the area.  Shows are held at one of the local restaurants with proceeds donated to a local charity. The musical performances are always jam-packed providing a great place to meet, mingle and make merry.

There we were, a conglomerate of East coast sophistication, genteel Southerners, and  West Coast avant-garde, tapping our toes to old Gene Autry and Arlo Gutherie tunes.

Fishers Peak

Of course, the sunset  painted Fishers Peak as it disappeared into the horizon.

“Oh, bye the bye, ice cream and cookies will be served after the concert.”

Drought and Bumper Crops

August 2, 2010

Traveling as many back roads as possible to attend my grand nieces wedding, I was surprised how incredibly green the landscape was. The weather was perfect traveling through Wyoming and the Dakotas.

Gentle rains freshened the air as intoxicating fragrances from nearby fields of grain nourished my senses.  The country side was luxuriantly green.  The heads of wheat, flax and oat crops were already bursting at their seams, heavily weighing the stalks that were just beginning to ripen.  I couldn’t believe my eyes.  I walked into several fields, and to my astonishment the crops were almost to my hips and the growing season was not yet over.  There was a bumper crop in the making, and I was ecstatic for the farmers.

I was drawn to take several gravel roads, which beckoned me to explore dirt paths as well.  Scurrying along the paths, wild turkeys, pheasants, ducks, fox, geese, and grouse darted in and out of ditches dense with towering, pungent grasses.  I never was quick enough to catch them with my camera.

South Central North Dakota

As I walked inhaling  the breathless scene around me, I mounted a gentle knoll. Embracing oceans of green stretching for hundreds of miles, I remembered a very different and cruel summer of my youth.

I was quite young when we suffered a severe drought. Spring was particularly disheartening, and foreshadowed a disastrous summer and meager harvest.

My dad came home day after day from spring planting shaking his head in disbelief.  The winter had been bitterly cold, and very, very dry. Without snow and early spring rains to saturate the soil it was impossible to plow. When the earth is sufficiently wet, it turns over easily. As it was, the soil was so dry that it simply would not turn over, but instead created clouds of dust as it briefly caught air and crumbled beneath plow shears.

I could tell my dad was worried by the way he paced back and forth in the kitchen.  Day after bone dry day he searched the sky for rain clouds  as we worked the fields together.  At night he would sit on the entrance steps, and look towards the West hoping moisture would come at last.

On rare occasion storm clouds would gather, with the smell of rain carried by a breeze, as thunder and lightning streaked the skies, but produced no precipitation. Dad stood in the door way watching and hoping for a down pour, and praying it would not hail.

He was distressed. His eyes were sad and anxious as he nervously paced. The heat was so intense it parched the earth creating deep cracks. The air was so dry and hot it made breathing extremely difficult.

Very slowly signs of wheat, oats, corn and flax began to break through the dry, cracked soil.  It was pitiful as they appeared weak from the struggle to break the surface without water.

The crops had barely grown two inches, when swarms of grasshoppers anchored strips of wheat and oats, and began munching their way towards the center. Within four days they had eaten their way through a quarter of the rain starved crops.  I had never seen such huge grasshoppers. They were nasty, and they bit everything in sight.

The heat was searing as well as relentless. The entire countryside  wilted before our eyes. Pastures were burning quickly, leaving our cattle grazing on barely green stubs of grass. Our large herd demanded more grass than was available, and we were forced to sell off over half of our livestock. I could see the disappointment on my fathers face when he returned from the cattle auction. The beef market was flooded plummeting prices to  to an all time low. Dad had to sell our cattle  for 7 cents per pound.

One early, hot, August day, we awoke to  dark ominous clouds on the horizon. Ordinarily my dad would have been thrilled, but he knew it was not a good sign.  Hail, the size of a half-dollar, pummeled the already sagging stalks of grain,  shredding them to bits.

By mid August my dad knew there would be no harvest. What was left of the crops was too short to swathe, much less combine, and the heads of grain were only half full.  We mowed down the crops and fed our reduced herd of cattle, hogs and chickens, hoping it would be enough to see us through another bitter winter.

The memories of that drought, hail, and bug infestation destroying our crops, drastically reducing our income to poverty level, are still etched in my mind.

Slowly I made my way back to the road, and continued toward my destination.  I realized experiencing the waves of abundance before me is much like life itself.  There is always a drought of time, money, food, or love, followed by a bumper crop.  We just need to learn how to be resourceful and have faith that our trials will pass.

Beauty Amidst the Thorns

July 27, 2010

It’s hot! Temperatures during the day vary as much as 45 degrees.  I awaken to 55 degrees and by noon it is in the mid-nineties.  By late afternoon storm clouds have gathered and I begin to worry how severely my car will be damaged by golf ball size hail, should mother nature get nasty.

I find the landscape in this area similar to the temperature; incredibly unpredictable. Recently I have been leaving town to get in my daily walk. I am fortunate that I have many places to walk and explore at the same time.  It is amazing to me that within a 5 mile radius I amble next to verdant pastures sloping gently upward into stately pines and craggy rocks beneath towering peaks. In the opposite direction, barely green pastures compete for moisture with copious cacti in rugged terrain.

What amazes me the most is how quickly moisture evaporates. Dirt roads made wet with rain showers during the night smell fresh and clean. By the time I am back in my car heading home, clouds of billowing dust trail behind me.

The landscape of my childhood consisted of gently sloping acres sectioned off into 40, 60, and 120 acre lots, which produced wheat, corn, oats, flax, barley, alfalfa and hay. This holds true for the northern states in general. I have always seen land used in the production of food.

I have had to adjust to the beautiful, but very rugged terrain in Southern Colorado. There are no verdant fields producing crops.  Instead, semi-parched pastures sustain cattle dodging cacti and huge rocks as they graze.  It seems to be too barren, too brown, too dry. It is impossible to till this region. It will never submit to a plow.

Although I appreciated its intrinsic beauty when I first arrived, it didn’t resonate with me like the pastoral scenes I am accustomed to when traveling in northern climes. It was lacking something I could not quite put my finger on until recently. Where was the serenity in this landscape? Cacti are not exactly soothing to the eye.

Off the Beaten Path Towards Westcliff

Taking a few detours to a meeting in Westcliff, the wild, untamed beauty of the land, began to pop up all around. All the prickly cacti that seemed the worse for wear, were alive in a riotous display of bright pinks, brilliant magentas, and yellows, ranging from lemon shades to deep apricot tones. I couldn’t help but smile and feel giddy. It was as if the cacti festooned the pastures for their annual summer gala.

For the first time I found myself deeply appreciating the harsh beauty of Southern Colorado.  The unexpected magic show combining exquisite beauty with menacing thorns is truly a wonder to behold.  Reminds me of a few people I know.  Lovely to look at but dangerous to get close to.

Where’s The Beef

July 20, 2010

We are surrounded by beef and beef  byproducts. Beef steak tomatoes, beef patties, beef cake, milk, cheese, belts, shoes, handbags, and I am sure I am missing a few things.

I grew up on what, back then, was considered a large farm.  Although we only had about 300 head of cattle, it was considered a huge herd in those days. As more farmers were forced to leave their land due to economic difficulties, larger farmers and ranchers bought out the smaller land owners, and today, owning less than 10,000 acres is considered small.

As I travel along back roads I am calmed when I see pastures dotted with grazing cattle and horses.  For me, livestock is a great comfort.  Instead of flighty, like most animals, cows seem steady, stable, braced, rooted. After a hard  day  of work keeping a hectic schedule, I always feel that the world makes more sense when I see animals.

The majority of people think that animals have no feelings.  I strongly disagree.  Every fall we would take our crop of young calves to market.  (For those of you that don’t know the industry, ranchers and farmers make their money by selling off the young calves.) The mothers would bawl for days on end, and some would wander aimlessly looking for their young.  I would be awakened in the middle of the night by their loud mooing, and cry myself to sleep because I knew they had souls and they missed their off spring, just as we do.

Cattle are more instinctual than we are. Their sense of danger, smell, bad weather, is far beyond human capabilities. Hours before bad weather is upon them, they begin to move towards shelter and group together for protection.  Their hides thicken according to what the temperature will be for the winter.

Ok, cows and other animals fart.  For years I have followed a little known government piece of legislation deeming cattle as dangerous polluters of air, and want to inject all livestock in this country with chemicals that would prevent them from passing gas.

Recently I had lunch with a dear friend of mine, who is extremely intelligent and votes conservative. He is also an environmentalist who recycles, and is very concerned about pesticides and harmful chemicals in our food chain. Because he lives in a large city he is critical about factories and other large corporations polluting rivers, oceans and air. He bikes to and from work and where ever else it is convenient instead of taking his car.

Our conversation turned to environmental issues.  I was stunned to the point of almost falling off my chair, when he vehemently supported the government injecting chemicals into our cattle to prevent them from farting; befouling  the air.   I had to check my hearing.  I always admired his intelligence, now I was convinced he had gone off the deep end. As if the government hasn’t messed up our food chain enough.

Not only are we subjected to the pollution that large corporations produce rendering our rivers, oceans and air quality dangerous to the point that we bear the brunt of negative health effects, we are now facing the possibility of beef being further contaminated by chemical injections.  Our food chain is already compromised to the point where scientists have proven negligible nutritional benefits of certain foods. Traces of DDT used in the 40’s and 50’s, is still found in all mammals.

Does my friend not realize how much poisons cars, trucks, and airplanes spew in a single hour?  Does he not realize there are cities so polluted that their citizens must wear a mask when leaving their homes because the air quality is so contaminated from factories and automobiles belching chemicals?

Past government administrations have done squat to stop large corporations from polluting, and are still behind the 8 ball when it comes to our transportation system gushing incredible amounts of toxins into the air.

Conservative political administrations natural inclination is to single out ranchers and farmers to bear the enormous expense of injecting cattle with chemicals because ranchers don’t have a lobby to stop stupidity.  Mean while,  corporations spend millions buying off our congress so they can continue their polluting. Bottom line is, shareholders would revolt if their profits were spent on over hauling manufacturing techniques that would be more environmentally friendly.

I am a simple farm girl, and by no means do I tip the high-end of the intelligence scale, but even I can see the idiocy, and sheer economic and health disaster, that would befall us should that piece of legislation be resurrected and implemented.

One thing is for sure.  If you leave your car running in a closed garage it will take only a matter of minutes before you  die.  If you are in a closed garage with a cow who farts on occasion, you may not like the smell, but it would take days before you expired.

Southern Colorado Beef

Where’s the beef?  Besides doing its job feeding and clothing us,our beef is meandering in far-flung pastures grazing on lush grass, unaware that they might be altered and manipulated just because they fart.

Conquests and the Universe

July 13, 2010

How much of the world is as the Universe intended?  This morning I heard a quote by Lyndon Johnson remarking on our precious national parks, “Will we preserve the world the way God made it and not the way it is when we get through with it?”

I too have often pondered this dilemma.  Many is the time when traveling on a back road I try to envision what the landscape must have looked like before white men came to conquer.  The idea of conquering is a quandary for me.  There is the obvious conquest of Europeans over Native Americans and forests.  Through their eyes killing both was a necessity for their survival. I don’t think Native Americans quite see it that way.

More recently, bloody conquests have been attempted with vengeance as millions of people applaud. There is no exit strategy. The hidden agenda is to keep the killing machine going for the sake of monetary gain by a handful of greedy corporations.

The real point is, when is enough, enough, and why, in this modern age, when supposedly intelligent people keep repeating historic blunders, is stupidity still admirable?

What have we sacrificed in the name of conquering?  What exactly is behind the desperate need of subjugation? Ego? Greed? Power? Wealth? Humiliation? I suspect all the above.  Are these really human needs?

There is also the slightly more subtle form of conquest over nature.  My love of open spaces is a well-known fact among my friends and relatives. I see the open spaces and experience its healing effects, which soothes my soul.  Upon closer examination there are very few open spaces that are free.

As I drive the back roads in awe of scenic landscapes there is always a fence to keep me out of private property.  I must respect these boundaries as the view that I am admiring is owned by someone.  On the rare occasion that there are no fences, I hike at a distance to savor the earth beneath my feet. However, I am never walking on native grasses, but on earth that has been manipulated in some way.

I realize that every square inch of this country is owned by someone, and has been altered in some form or another.  Grass lands have been pressed into producing grain to feed us and to export to other countries. This very precious soil has been tampered with to the extent, that in some cases, it can no longer produce crops.

There are parks in urban areas with signs announcing, Enjoy Our Open Spaces.  The hiking, biking and equestrian paths are posted with signs warning us to heed the rules of the park by staying on designated trails. No off trail hikes allowed.

Our mountains are under the management by  the Department of Interior with Federal Government offices in D.C., and state parks managed by offices in the state capitol. Do these managers of our national and state parks ever step foot in our national treasures?  I doubt it.

Native Americans are no longer engaged for rain dances during a drought.  Instead the weather is being manipulated by cloud seeding, a process where chemicals, silver iodide and carbon dioxide, are seeded in clouds to stimulate rain.

We have rerouted rivers that never stay rerouted, built damns at the expense of pyramids, reduced mountains to rubble and sacrificed our food obtained in oceans for purposes that on the surface seemed logical, but in the long run have caused more harm to humans and the environment.

Whenever mother nature has her way it never ceases to amaze me how people react. When visiting friends, if the weather happens to be rainy, snowy, too hot, or too cold, they apologize as if they were personally responsible and in control of the climate.

I have heard people whine and complain when the weather was lousy while on vacation, as if the resort was liable.  I am stunned beyond the pale whenever I hear “the weather just didn’t cooperate” as if it was a negotiable commodity.  Arrogance seems to be running amok.

I also realize that with all the overbearing blunders we have made there have been enormous strides to compensate for our mistakes, but still, I would like to see what the Native Americans saw before we conquered.

How much of the world is as the Universe intended? “Will we preserve the world the way God made it and not the way it is when we get through with it?”

South Central North Dakota

I admit looking towards heaven and smiling just a bit when mother nature wreaks havoc.  I hope she continues to stay in charge.  We need to learn the lesson that we cannot always conquer just because we need to satiate our every whim.

Gloria in Excelsis Deo

July 6 ,2010

I recently accepted an invitation from an old friend to participate in a weekend of singing with the Mennonite Society of Musical Heritage. My friend informed me that it would be fun, an occasion to meet new people, and a time of spiritual renewal.  Gloria in Excelcis Deo was the chosen theme.  Fifty plus choral members gathered to rehearse four Glorias written by some of my favorite classical composers.

This (recovering) Catholic was thrilled at the opportunity to once again sing in Latin. We began rehearsing Friday evening, and by the time Sunday morning arrived we were performing in a filled to capacity sanctuary. My friend was right.  Indeed, it was one of the most gratifying weekends I have spent in many years.

Music was always very important in my family.  After Sunday Mass, my sister played the piano as my father and I sang old German hymns and contemporary music, while my mother prepared soup du jour.  I suspected my father must have spoken to the parish Priest and coaxed him to accept me into the church choir at the age of 14. Other young people had to wait until their 16th birthday before being invited to sing.  I was excited and felt, oh, so grown up.

Between the Nuns and Father Zimmerman I learned Latin, and the tongue twisting intricacies the language demanded.  Mass was still said in Latin in those days and I astonish myself to this day, when on rare occasions I am present at the odd service, where the Gloria is recited in Latin, and I don’t skip a beat.  Each word is savored as it flows from deep within.  The Latin Mass is forever committed to my memory.  It begs the question why can’t I remember where I put important papers?

My musical tastes are varied. When I hit back roads for a long trip I stock up on CD’s, ranging from exotic middle eastern drumming to new age and everything in between.  What is amazing and uncanny to me is when the music accompanies the landscape.

Recently I was moved to tears. While driving through a mountain valley I began climbing a gentle pass and before me snow-capped peaks arose on the horizon just as the first strains of Gounod’s Gloria from his St. Cecelia’s Mass commenced.

With each passing moment majestic mountains and heavenly high C’s soared in magnitude, intertwined, became one, cresendoing in divine providence. Surrounded by this heavenly miracle on earth, my entire being was transfixed as involuntary tears stained my cheeks. Breathless and humbled, overwhelmed by nature and genius, the deepest part of me knew I experienced a blessing from on high.

Holy Trinity Church

Gloria in Excelsis Deo.

Et in terra pax hominibus, bone voluntatis;

Laudamus te,

Benedicimus te,

Glorificamus te;

Gratias agimus tibi, propter magnam gloriam tuam.

Domine Deus, Rex Coelestis, Deus Pater omnipotens.

Domine Fili unigenite.  Jesu Christe.

Domine Deus, agnus de, Filius Patris.

Qui Tollis peccata mundi. Miserere nobis.

Suscipe deprecationem nostram.

Qui sedes ad dexteram,

Patris Miserere nobis.

Quoniam tu solus sanctus,

Tu solus Dominus,

tu solus altisimus, Jesu Christi.

Cum sancto Spiritus in gloria Dei Patris.

Amen

Pastoral Philosophies

June 29, 2010

Nostalgia!  What is it about by gone days that tugs at our heart-strings and makes us yearn for a more simple way to live?  Our lives are filled with busyness that keeps most people’s heads spinning. For many of us our days can’t begin without extreme java jolts. We are in constant motion trying to keep the hectic pace that has been set by “THEM.” My friend yearns for three days of sleep. I wish I could help her, but all I can do is nod in sympathy. I feel her pain.

On a recent road trip I had the pleasure of staying with my nephew and his family. Even though they live in a medium-sized city, they too hit the ground running, working long hours, keeping a large house, yard, and raising three children. I was exhausted just watching them.

I was thrilled when my nephew, Alex, took time out of his fast-paced schedule and prepared a bountiful breakfast of sausage, eggs, potatoes and toast. It was our time together as adults rather than aunt and nephew. The early morning sun had already taken a bite out of the chilly air as we feasted on his deck overlooking the Wide Missouri.

Our conversation turned to his recent move from his farm to the city. The constant pressure of working long hours then returning home late in the evening to feed cattle and clean the barns had taken it’s toll.  Even though he missed the open spaces and the feeling of freedom, he admitted he was not free of the enormous burden of endless chores and the amount of extremely hard work that it took to keep a farm running and working a 10-12 hour a day job.

For Alex, the adjustment to living in a city and having several days off a month had been difficult for him but he admits that he needed to learn to relax and enjoy life. He seemed more at peace.

As a child, Alex was the ever curious George.  He wanted to know everything  about everything. His questions were unceasing. As we began to discuss his work it was my turn to ask the questions. In doing so I discovered his remarkable ability to instinctively apply Harvard Business School principals without a business degree.  He oh shucked his shoulders and modestly revealed that he wasn’t quite sure what he was doing so he had his employees gather round, made goals, set deadlines, achieved both, resulting in a complete turn around of a failing company. Not bad for a farm boy.

We waxed philosophical and explored the depths of painful life experiences and lessons learned. As he recounted his most profound life altering incident, I was deeply touched by his openness and willingness to wear his heart on his sleeve. His recognition of how external events forced him to look within and alter his ways, was more than most people recognize after 20 years of therapy.   He is a rare man among men and I feel privileged to have him in my life.

As the sun lingered, warming our spot , we gathered dishes and left overs preparing to go our separate ways.  I was lamenting that even though we had spent over 6 hours together, I didn’t want to stop talking with Alex. Our time together had ended and I had to get back on the road and he to work.

South Central North Dakota

Remembering our shared childhood on the farm and all the hard labor that life style entails, we both agree, there is a beauty and connection to the earth that binds us beyond familial ties.  Working with and in nature is tremendously labor intensive and exhausting, but the most gratifying of all things I have done.

Pastoral scenes eclipse the memories of the hardships of life on a farm and yes, we become nostalgic for a simple way of life in the midst of a chaotic, buzzing, megacity, where we earn a living, but not necessarily a life.

They Call the Wind Mariah

June 22, 2010

The plains states are notorious for unceasing wind. Some people claim to have been driven crazy by the unrelenting, blustery, air.  Much destruction has been caused by hurricanes and tornados. Many people bemoan the wind, indeed, sometimes they curse the wind.

Reminds me of my mother and older sisters draping their just styled hair in scarves before leaving the house so the wind would not disturb their coif.  Looking back, I don’t know how a typhoon could have destroyed my sisters hair style, given the teasing and gallons of hair spray she used. It always looked like heavy armor instead of real hair. I was convinced it was bullet proof.

I was pleasantly surprised when I moved to a large city, and discovered there was little wind to contend with, except when the occasional storm passed through. My recent move to Southern Colorado has me wondering why I spend a minimum of 30 minutes distributing mousse and other gels through my fine hair in hopes that it will enhance my crowning glory.

Once I have shampooed my hair, I move as quickly as I can, and standing at attention before a mirror, begin the soft curling procedure; twisting chunks of hair around a thick circular brush while maneuvering the hair dryer in all sorts of angles. That is only the drying operation at attempts of having soft, natural curls.  Brushing and styling my hair takes another 10 minutes. I end this with a light spray hoping that will keep my accomplishment in place.

Thirty-seconds later I am dashing toward my car, and the second I step into the out-of-doors, swirling gusts of wind have dashed any hopes that I might have had in looking well-groomed. My efforts laid to waste, I start my car and wonder just how stupid I was to have wasted all that time in the first place when I know what the result will be.  Silly me! There is no such thing as a good hair day in Southern Colorado.

Oh yes, the importance of “The Wind Mariah.” Our farm had a modest herd of cattle where water was drawn by a wind mill. Each morning and intermittently throughout the day we would pull the lever which engaged gears, driving huge blades to catch wind that eventually produced a trickle, then a cascade of cool, clear, sweet water.  Every farm had a wind mill, but as electricity became prevalent, water pumps replaced the giant towers.

In the hinterlands of the plains, where there is no electricity to operate pumps, the wind is the most reliable means of driving the giant blades of mills to draw water for ranchers whose cattle are feeding in far off pastures. I love the sight of them. They are a hint of civilization in beautiful, but dry, barren, desolate and lonely landscapes.

Steady, but mild, light, puffs of air, was relied upon in ancient times during harvest when winnowing wheat. Modern farmers rely on the early morning zephyrs to dry heavy dew on ripened hay and alfalfa before mowing can begin. Swathes of wheat, oats, flax, and barley cannot be run through a combine during harvest before searing, hot, stiff, breezes, dry the heavy, grain laden stalks. There would be no tall tales of sailing the seven seas by sailors without gales, hurricanes, and typhoons.

Ghosts of Windmills Past

Modern technology has borrowed from ancient technology with the invention of wind turbines that produce energy. There are several wind farms dotting the countryside in the plains states.  Wind energy is the new clean energy and given the recent disaster in the Gulf of Mexico, it would behoove non believers to take a look at our necessity to continue our greedy life style to sustain bad habits, and, by too many people, the nonexistent concern for our planet and future generations.

Even though we may be at odds and curse the destruction caused by wind, our lives depend on what was immortalized in the song, “They Call the Wind Mariah.”

“Away out there they got a name,

For rain and wind and fire.

The rain is Tess, the fire Joe,

And they call the wind Mariah.”