I have a hard time saying no.
Actually, I have a really terribly hard time saying no. Especially to good spiritual helpful projects. Especially when good kind people ask me. I drown in guilt and second-guess myself.
But yesterday I said no.
My friend "Belinda" is always helping people, and she had offered--well I will just say she had offered to can applesauce for someone who needed it even though that's not exactly what it was.
It turned into a huge project and Belinda called and asked if I had anything going on and could I help her?
It's very hard for me in a situation like this to say, actually I have a lot going on: dishes, laundry, writing to Amy, getting groceries, emailing that one lady back, reminding Steven to scrub the blop of ketchup he left on the carpet, washing my hair, and making supper.
Because that doesn't sound nearly as important as helping to can applesauce for a deserving family.
But for once I knew what I needed to do and I said no.
So I did dishes and laundry and got groceries and did lots of other fiddly stuff.
That was yesterday.
Early this morning my sister-in-law Geneva called and said her dad passed away during the night and they were having a private burial this afternoon that we were invited to. [Phil and Geneva have taken care of him for six years and he's had a long, lingering, slow demise.]
So. Because I said no to Belinda yesterday I could say yes to today. I had a clean outfit to wear and gas in the car and food here for the children after school. I pulled chicken enchiladas and cinnamon rolls out of the freezer to take along. I had piecrusts on hand so I made two apple pies, one for my brother's family and one for us. And I left before noon with no frantic last minute dashing around the house while watching the clock and was able to spend a few hours with Phil and Geneva before the burial, making tea and talking and ironing Phil's shirt and trying to get Geneva to take a nap.
It's not always bad to say no to a good thing.
We'll see if I remember that next time.
Quote of the Day:
"Is there something you should be writing?"
--Paul, when I was mopping the kitchen at 10:30 pm
Friday, November 11, 2011
Monday, November 07, 2011
Analyzing Authors
Today I was writing about my addiction to tea, and in researching I ran across the best analysis ever of tea, by our old friend Alexander McCall Smith of the #1 Ladies Detective Agency series.
Here it is.
Certainly you will find tea (in the form of tea bags) in your room, but how do you make it? The answer is that they expect you to make it in the coffee maker.
Meanwhile we move on to another favorite author of mine--Lucy Maud Montgomery. I have been over-indulging in her stories ever since Emily found me a new and very inexpensive Jetbook (Kindle knockoff) at the bent-n-dent grocery store where she works and Matt helped me download half a dozen free collections of LMM's short stories.
I've also been analyzing her stories to figure out their structure, hoping to emulate their charm someday.
And I've come across some very interesting things that keep coming up which I may or may not emulate.
1. A first sentence that plunges you right into the story. "I had two schools offered me that summer; one at Rocky Valley and one at Bayside." "At sunset the schoolmaster went upstairs to write a letter to her." "Miss Hannah was cutting asters in her garden."
2. A recurring theme of families fragmented by death, and of children being raised by people other than their parents. With all the halfs and steps it reminds me of children today, but the sequence was always marriage-death-remarriage rather than marriage-divorce-shacking up etc.
3. Girls at boarding school having fun. That happened a lot back then.
4. Women who got to stay home and keep house were to be envied. Women who had to be employed were to be pitied. The former got married, or were adopted by rich relatives. The latter were thin, haggard old maids who didn't have any family and had to live in bare boarding houses and either teach school or work in department stores or be maids for wealthy people.
5. Bachelor farmers were quite common, and quite self-sufficient. They usually had housekeepers, grim old aunts who didn't darn the socks and didn't clean corners.
6. Women farmers were surprisingly common too. Most of them were the efficient-manager type who got along just fine with a hired man and a French-Canadian boy to run errands. The exception was the little widow with two little boys whose pigs kept getting into the bachelor farmer's garden, and at first he got all upset but then he fell in love with the widow and married her, and then she was to be envied because she was well taken care of and got to stay home and keep house and do all the cooking she wanted without worrying about the pigs.
7. Unrequited love was a good and noble thing, and if you wrote secret love letters for 20 years and kept them in a box up in your room because you could never marry because you were from two different classes, your love was still a good and noble thing, and somehow you kept up the energy of this high and noble true love and didn't get tired of it after 20 years even if you never talked to each other.
8. Young men who weren't accepted at home or who wanted a new start always went out West, usually to Manitoba. Many came home rich after 20 years away. This sheds an interesting light on Paul's great-great-grandpa Christian Smucker who we are told was the black sheep of the family in Ohio and came out to Oregon many years ago, and who never had much to do with the Ohio Smuckers ever again. So evidently he never went back and snuck down a moonlit road and found his former love out wandering around at night, still unmarried and still thinking about him.
9. Family members kept losing contact with each other and finding each other when a random person did something noble. Like, a man would die leaving a wife and child, and eventually the wife would remarry when the child was in his teens, and they'd have another child, but then the wife would die also, and the younger child would live with another family and the teenager would go out West, and they would totally lose contact. Years later they would meet by accident when the older guy would go to a friend's house for Thanksgiving, and meanwhile the friend's younger sister would after a sleepless night of tormented conscience decide to invite the shy girl in the bare boarding house home for Thanksgiving, and the two guests would take one look at each other and realize they were long-separated half-siblings. And then the brother would take his half sister home with him and she was so lucky that she had a home she could be the mistress of and could leave the awful boarding house and her awful job as a teacher.
10. Abrupt endings. I'd say 75% of LMM's endings are just WHAM. Done. That's it. Before you're quite ready.
Like this.
Quote of the Day:
Jenny: AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!!!! Look at that spider!!!
Ben: WHOA! That thing's got like a cubic centimeter behind!
Here it is.
Tea, for me, is one of the great subjects. It is a romantic trade, it does not pollute excessively, it has all sorts of health benefits, it calms and wakes you up at the same time. It promotes conversation. You can give it to the vicar when he calls – if vicars still call – and you can give it to the builders when they come to knock down your wall. Builders still take sugar, but then I'm sure they need it.
Tea can be drunk by everyone. Pilots high in the sky drink tea as they fly across oceans. Captains on the bridge of the humblest vessel drink it as they plough slowly through the waves. Submariners drink it as they sail under those very waves. A person who is troubled in heart can drink tea and for a moment feel happier about life. A person who is happy with his lot can drink it and perhaps think about those who are not quite so happy. Members of Parliament may drink it – at our expense – and not feel too guilty. Policemen drink it – as the Ahlbergs point out in the story of the cops of London town – and so do robbers. I have seen a horse who loved to drink it from a cup. Dogs like it, too.
I must now go and put the kettle on.
He is the first person I've ever run across who acknowledges the horror of mixing the flavors of tea and coffee, and of how American motels err in this regard.Certainly you will find tea (in the form of tea bags) in your room, but how do you make it? The answer is that they expect you to make it in the coffee maker.
Now the problem with that is that if there are two flavours in this world that cannot – in any circumstances – be combined, it is tea and coffee. To make tea in a container that has been tainted with coffee is to ensure that the resultant tea is undrinkable. The flavour of coffee lingers in a vessel long after the last cup was brewed, and it is impossible to use that vessel for tea-making no matter how much it is washed. Try it. Put coffee in a vacuum flask and then, after washing it out thoroughly, try to use it for tea.
He just GETS the charm of tea. Read it if you like tea also.Meanwhile we move on to another favorite author of mine--Lucy Maud Montgomery. I have been over-indulging in her stories ever since Emily found me a new and very inexpensive Jetbook (Kindle knockoff) at the bent-n-dent grocery store where she works and Matt helped me download half a dozen free collections of LMM's short stories.
I've also been analyzing her stories to figure out their structure, hoping to emulate their charm someday.
And I've come across some very interesting things that keep coming up which I may or may not emulate.
1. A first sentence that plunges you right into the story. "I had two schools offered me that summer; one at Rocky Valley and one at Bayside." "At sunset the schoolmaster went upstairs to write a letter to her." "Miss Hannah was cutting asters in her garden."
2. A recurring theme of families fragmented by death, and of children being raised by people other than their parents. With all the halfs and steps it reminds me of children today, but the sequence was always marriage-death-remarriage rather than marriage-divorce-shacking up etc.
3. Girls at boarding school having fun. That happened a lot back then.
4. Women who got to stay home and keep house were to be envied. Women who had to be employed were to be pitied. The former got married, or were adopted by rich relatives. The latter were thin, haggard old maids who didn't have any family and had to live in bare boarding houses and either teach school or work in department stores or be maids for wealthy people.
5. Bachelor farmers were quite common, and quite self-sufficient. They usually had housekeepers, grim old aunts who didn't darn the socks and didn't clean corners.
6. Women farmers were surprisingly common too. Most of them were the efficient-manager type who got along just fine with a hired man and a French-Canadian boy to run errands. The exception was the little widow with two little boys whose pigs kept getting into the bachelor farmer's garden, and at first he got all upset but then he fell in love with the widow and married her, and then she was to be envied because she was well taken care of and got to stay home and keep house and do all the cooking she wanted without worrying about the pigs.
7. Unrequited love was a good and noble thing, and if you wrote secret love letters for 20 years and kept them in a box up in your room because you could never marry because you were from two different classes, your love was still a good and noble thing, and somehow you kept up the energy of this high and noble true love and didn't get tired of it after 20 years even if you never talked to each other.
8. Young men who weren't accepted at home or who wanted a new start always went out West, usually to Manitoba. Many came home rich after 20 years away. This sheds an interesting light on Paul's great-great-grandpa Christian Smucker who we are told was the black sheep of the family in Ohio and came out to Oregon many years ago, and who never had much to do with the Ohio Smuckers ever again. So evidently he never went back and snuck down a moonlit road and found his former love out wandering around at night, still unmarried and still thinking about him.
9. Family members kept losing contact with each other and finding each other when a random person did something noble. Like, a man would die leaving a wife and child, and eventually the wife would remarry when the child was in his teens, and they'd have another child, but then the wife would die also, and the younger child would live with another family and the teenager would go out West, and they would totally lose contact. Years later they would meet by accident when the older guy would go to a friend's house for Thanksgiving, and meanwhile the friend's younger sister would after a sleepless night of tormented conscience decide to invite the shy girl in the bare boarding house home for Thanksgiving, and the two guests would take one look at each other and realize they were long-separated half-siblings. And then the brother would take his half sister home with him and she was so lucky that she had a home she could be the mistress of and could leave the awful boarding house and her awful job as a teacher.
10. Abrupt endings. I'd say 75% of LMM's endings are just WHAM. Done. That's it. Before you're quite ready.
Like this.
Quote of the Day:
Jenny: AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!!!! Look at that spider!!!
Ben: WHOA! That thing's got like a cubic centimeter behind!
Friday, November 04, 2011
Good Morning to You Too
This sweet scene greeted me in the kitchen this morning.Quote of the Day:
"Mom! Go long!"
--Jenny
[Gotta say this was the first time I heard this yelled at me in the grocery store. I turned around. Jenny was a ways down the shampoo aisle, all wound up and about to throw me a foam football she had pulled out of a display in the aisle. I don't think I went long, but she threw it, and I caught it and threw it back, and then it went back in the display.]
Tuesday, November 01, 2011
Names
When I was young I hated my name. Dorcas Yoder. It was full of R's and O's, and it twisted your mouth, and it was was so WEIRD among all the Lories and Tammies and Vickies. And nobody who wasn't Mennonite had ever heard of it.
I could never buy a cute key chain with my name on it.
And I had a sister who went by Becky, and she was cute and vivacious, and I knew if we switched names I would have a chance at being cute and vivacious too, and she would be awkward and overweight. What was really irritating was that Mom and Dad had "Dorcas" all picked out before Becky was born, and then right before that their good friends had a baby and named her Dorcas, so Mom and Dad switched to Rebecca and saved Dorcas for me, a year later.
THAT close I could have been a Becky. Imagine.
And then my younger sister was named Margaret, a lovely name as well.
I doubt that the Beckies and Suzies of this world ever had to put up with stuff like the lady behind the counter saying, "DORcas??? [Lord's-name-in-vain] WHAT a NAME, eh?"
I used to read Newsweek magazine and gaze in envy at the column by Jane Bryant Quinn. What a perfect name. If I had a name like that, full of N's, I could be a writer too.
Well. If there is a young person reading this who has something in his or her life that seems irritating and unchangeable and beyond redemption, let me just say that you never know. God takes delight in redeeming the very thing that you think stands in the way of you ever doing anything successful and meaningful with your life.
Obviously I got used to "Dorcas" somewhere along the way and had much weightier things to worry about, and it really didn't matter any more.
And then the world kept spinning around and I started writing.
And a very strange thing happened. People thought I had the most wonderful name, that it sounded just like a writer's name ought to sound.
Bizarre, isn't it?
A lovely local woman whom I got to meet one time posted this on her blog--
I could never buy a cute key chain with my name on it.
And I had a sister who went by Becky, and she was cute and vivacious, and I knew if we switched names I would have a chance at being cute and vivacious too, and she would be awkward and overweight. What was really irritating was that Mom and Dad had "Dorcas" all picked out before Becky was born, and then right before that their good friends had a baby and named her Dorcas, so Mom and Dad switched to Rebecca and saved Dorcas for me, a year later.
THAT close I could have been a Becky. Imagine.
And then my younger sister was named Margaret, a lovely name as well.
I doubt that the Beckies and Suzies of this world ever had to put up with stuff like the lady behind the counter saying, "DORcas??? [Lord's-name-in-vain] WHAT a NAME, eh?"
I used to read Newsweek magazine and gaze in envy at the column by Jane Bryant Quinn. What a perfect name. If I had a name like that, full of N's, I could be a writer too.
Well. If there is a young person reading this who has something in his or her life that seems irritating and unchangeable and beyond redemption, let me just say that you never know. God takes delight in redeeming the very thing that you think stands in the way of you ever doing anything successful and meaningful with your life.
Obviously I got used to "Dorcas" somewhere along the way and had much weightier things to worry about, and it really didn't matter any more.
And then the world kept spinning around and I started writing.
And a very strange thing happened. People thought I had the most wonderful name, that it sounded just like a writer's name ought to sound.
Bizarre, isn't it?
A lovely local woman whom I got to meet one time posted this on her blog--
In this part of Oregon I share my name with several Kathy Davises, and the name Kathleen Davis is just about as common. . .At Adams Elementary School in the 60s it seemed there were Kathys in every classroom. I believe it was in 2nd grade that there were 3 of us. . .At one point, I remember, I wished for a dreamy princess name like Cinderella or something. . .
That’s why I stuck my maiden name in my title for this website. I may still be a little bit envious of people with simple but unique author’s names like Dorcas Smucker, but I’ll get over it. I’m thankful for what I’ve been given.
Interesting, isn't it?
So, you with the celiac disease or "too many" younger siblings or weak ankles or dandruff or strict parents or dyslexia: Hang in there. The Lord loves to redeem these things.
Quote of the Day:
"She strikes me as Godly but unintimidating."
--Jenny. We all like that kind, don't we?
Sunday, October 30, 2011
Romance
29 years ago tonight we had our first date.
That's the statistic for the day.
Now for a story about a romantic Oregon farmer. I spoke at a women's retreat up in the mountains an hour and a half northwest of here on Friday and Saturday. One young woman there is married to a grass-seed-and-clover farmer who heard about the retreat and said, "Oh--Smucker? That's where we send our screenings." That would be Steve the BIL who turns the offscourings of grass seed cleaning into pellets for cattle feed.
Anyway, when this young couple was dating, the guy, who sacked seed for the family warehouse, took the stencil maker for the bags and punched in "I love you Mary" and inked it on duct tape and wrapped the tape around a water bottle and gave it to his girlfriend.
Anyone who has sacked seed will appreciate that romantic gesture, I think.
As for that anniversary, today in church I was thinking, if I would have known what I was in for, would I do it over again?
That's not really a fair question, is it? It wasn't the date or the guy that made things hard or easy since then, although we have certainly had our tough times. Life just finds ways to be hard whether you say yes or no to the nice tall freckled guy.
But I'm glad I said yes.
Quote of the Day, in which Mrs. Smucker thinks it's good she didn't have a premonition of this when she agreed to that first date.
Emily: You put SUGAR on your CEREAL??
Paul: Yes.
[Too-long too-loud discussion/argument on whether or not sugar is bad for you]
Emily: Just don't come running to me when you're sick and dying and on your deathbed!
Paul: Do I tend to do that?
Emily: What? Be sick and die or come running to me?
[etc. etc.]
That's the statistic for the day.
Now for a story about a romantic Oregon farmer. I spoke at a women's retreat up in the mountains an hour and a half northwest of here on Friday and Saturday. One young woman there is married to a grass-seed-and-clover farmer who heard about the retreat and said, "Oh--Smucker? That's where we send our screenings." That would be Steve the BIL who turns the offscourings of grass seed cleaning into pellets for cattle feed.
Anyway, when this young couple was dating, the guy, who sacked seed for the family warehouse, took the stencil maker for the bags and punched in "I love you Mary" and inked it on duct tape and wrapped the tape around a water bottle and gave it to his girlfriend.
Anyone who has sacked seed will appreciate that romantic gesture, I think.
As for that anniversary, today in church I was thinking, if I would have known what I was in for, would I do it over again?
That's not really a fair question, is it? It wasn't the date or the guy that made things hard or easy since then, although we have certainly had our tough times. Life just finds ways to be hard whether you say yes or no to the nice tall freckled guy.
But I'm glad I said yes.
Quote of the Day, in which Mrs. Smucker thinks it's good she didn't have a premonition of this when she agreed to that first date.
Emily: You put SUGAR on your CEREAL??
Paul: Yes.
[Too-long too-loud discussion/argument on whether or not sugar is bad for you]
Emily: Just don't come running to me when you're sick and dying and on your deathbed!
Paul: Do I tend to do that?
Emily: What? Be sick and die or come running to me?
[etc. etc.]
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
My Cold
I have a cold.
When other people have colds I tend to say, Oh that's too bad, and I tend to think, Well, it's just a cold, get on with your life.
If I remember right, I haven't had a real full-blown cold for a long time. I've spent the last couple of winters swallowing vitamins and cod liver oil and echinacea, and when others in the family got sick I sliced raw garlic into my salads despite the family's protests and plowed through like James Bond piloting that plane through the flames in Tomorrow Never Dies, which I once watched on a plane, never fear, I don't watch JB on my own time.
I also haven't had a full-blown flu since that horrible bout with swine flu a few years ago.
Well.
I came home from Minnesota and Emily had a cold that made her look like she was weeping miserably for a couple of days, and it was bad but she said it's not as bad as feeling sick all over.
I took my vitamins and was sure I'd be fine.
But I caught her cold and oh mei zeit I am sorry for ever not feeling sorry enough for you if you ever told me you had a cold.
I feel like someone dumped acid in my eyes, stuffed styrofoam up my nose, pushed me down the stairs, attacked me with the forklift, and ran me through the spin cycle on the washer. I glance at the light and my eye gets all prickly and gushes forth tears that stream down my cheek. My chest is slathered in Vicks but I can't smell it. I cut up pieces of an old flannel sheet for handkerchiefs, since Kleenexes are just too savage for my raw nose.
I spend a lot of time in bed and can't muster up the courage to do a load of laundry.
I can think of only one good result of this and that is that when I'm not lying down I can usually work on the computer, and I did a bunch of work on my next book and also planning for the writing class I'm starting to teach next week.
You're probably thinking, It's just a cold, why don't you get on with your life? I guess colds are much more dramatic and portentious when they're your own and not someone else's.
Quote of the Day:
"I came to the conclusion that if things are difficult, that's not an abnormality. That's just normal."
--Mike G., a friend from church
When other people have colds I tend to say, Oh that's too bad, and I tend to think, Well, it's just a cold, get on with your life.
If I remember right, I haven't had a real full-blown cold for a long time. I've spent the last couple of winters swallowing vitamins and cod liver oil and echinacea, and when others in the family got sick I sliced raw garlic into my salads despite the family's protests and plowed through like James Bond piloting that plane through the flames in Tomorrow Never Dies, which I once watched on a plane, never fear, I don't watch JB on my own time.
I also haven't had a full-blown flu since that horrible bout with swine flu a few years ago.
Well.
I came home from Minnesota and Emily had a cold that made her look like she was weeping miserably for a couple of days, and it was bad but she said it's not as bad as feeling sick all over.
I took my vitamins and was sure I'd be fine.
But I caught her cold and oh mei zeit I am sorry for ever not feeling sorry enough for you if you ever told me you had a cold.
I feel like someone dumped acid in my eyes, stuffed styrofoam up my nose, pushed me down the stairs, attacked me with the forklift, and ran me through the spin cycle on the washer. I glance at the light and my eye gets all prickly and gushes forth tears that stream down my cheek. My chest is slathered in Vicks but I can't smell it. I cut up pieces of an old flannel sheet for handkerchiefs, since Kleenexes are just too savage for my raw nose.
I spend a lot of time in bed and can't muster up the courage to do a load of laundry.
I can think of only one good result of this and that is that when I'm not lying down I can usually work on the computer, and I did a bunch of work on my next book and also planning for the writing class I'm starting to teach next week.
You're probably thinking, It's just a cold, why don't you get on with your life? I guess colds are much more dramatic and portentious when they're your own and not someone else's.
Quote of the Day:
"I came to the conclusion that if things are difficult, that's not an abnormality. That's just normal."
--Mike G., a friend from church
Friday, October 21, 2011
Old Pictures
After posting the other day about Matt's surgery in 1991, I dug out some old pictures of the occasion, just for fun.
You can see them here.
You can see them here.
The Dakotas
I'm not sure why I find South Dakota so interesting. Both of the Dakotas, actually. It has always seemed to me that people from there are friendly, tough, practical, and unpretentious in a way that makes people from other parts of the country seem a bit sissified in comparison.
Some of my perception is due to random snapshot experiences. Like the time we were driving to Minnesota and stopped at a cafe in a tiny town for breakfast. I looked over the newspapers for sale at the front counter and asked the cashier if they had any with national news. She paused. "Well," she said, "as national as we get out here."
I loved that line.
Or the time Jenny and I rode the bus home from Minnesota and I talked with a few Dakota grandmas for a couple of hundred miles, and then one of them got off the bus and got picked up by a wholesome, smiling teenage farm boy in a pickup truck with a trailer behind who hugged his grandma and hoisted in her luggage and seemed a world apart from the slouching, miserable-looking, black-clad high school crowd that crosses the street by WinCo in Eugene.
Then of course there was my nephew who died in South Dakota, and his crowd of friends who came to his viewing and hugged the family and freely conversed with this West Coast aunt like they wanted to know how I fit into Leonard's life and like I was worth getting to know.
And then there's the mystique of the South Dakota Farm Boy as the Ideal Man, as discussed by Emily and Hillary way back in early 2006.
So I have a bit of an idealized picture of Dakotans. But I didn't know if I could ever live there.
My nephew had been very good friends with a family in South Dakota--Tim and Katie Faber, I'll call them--and their many young-adult children. When Leonard died, the Fabers were "there" for his family in intensely supportive and ongoing ways.
Some time ago the Fabers moved to a ranch in western South Dakota where they raise hay. I'm not sure if they also have cattle and sheep, but I know others in the area do. [They also put llamas out with the sheep to chase off coyotes which I find intriguing.] While I was at Mom and Dad's last week, my brother Marcus and SIL Anna went to visit Fabers for the weekend.
They came home with lots of stories about life in western South Dakota. It's rugged but not Badlands country exactly, Marcus said, and not all prairie either. Basically ranch country with buttes here and there. There are two public high schools to choose from, he said. One is 30 miles from the ranch and the other 35. The bus from the one school goes as far as 50 miles away to pick up students.
If a part breaks down on a John Deere baler, you have three John Deere dealers to choose from to get the part, but they are all about 85 miles away. So do you spend the day making a 170-mile round trip, or do you order the part and wait for it to be delivered the next day?
Tim and Katie took Marcus and Anna to a Norwegian supper at a small Lutheran church, some 60 miles away. About 200 people showed up, most likely from all directions and distances, and they all seemed to revel in the chance to talk with "neighbors" like this.
"It would take a special person to live in a place like that," I said.
"How so?" Marcus asked.
"You'd have to be ok with not being connected with people," I said. "I mean, driving through Montana and North Dakota, I'd see these houses sitting there alone in miles and miles of countryside and I thought, I don't know if I'd have it in me to live there, so far from other people."
Marcus disagreed with me. "You wouldn't believe how connected those people are with their neighbors, even if the neighbors are five or ten miles away. They really watch out for each other. If someone is making a run to the grocery store, they call each other up to see if they need anything. Someone called up Katie to see if she needed groceries, and she said she needs lettuce, and the next morning there were two heads of lettuce on the front seat of the truck. If someone is having a hard time, the neighbors help them out. People make you feel valuable, and they talk with you. On our way out there we stopped and ate at a little cafe before we went on to the ranch, and there was only one other customer, and she struck up a conversation with us and wanted to know all about us and told us about her work as an EMT."
"In fact," Marcus said, "I really think people are more connected in that part of South Dakota than they are in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania."
Wow. Maybe I could live in South Dakota after all.
Some of my perception is due to random snapshot experiences. Like the time we were driving to Minnesota and stopped at a cafe in a tiny town for breakfast. I looked over the newspapers for sale at the front counter and asked the cashier if they had any with national news. She paused. "Well," she said, "as national as we get out here."
I loved that line.
Or the time Jenny and I rode the bus home from Minnesota and I talked with a few Dakota grandmas for a couple of hundred miles, and then one of them got off the bus and got picked up by a wholesome, smiling teenage farm boy in a pickup truck with a trailer behind who hugged his grandma and hoisted in her luggage and seemed a world apart from the slouching, miserable-looking, black-clad high school crowd that crosses the street by WinCo in Eugene.
Then of course there was my nephew who died in South Dakota, and his crowd of friends who came to his viewing and hugged the family and freely conversed with this West Coast aunt like they wanted to know how I fit into Leonard's life and like I was worth getting to know.
And then there's the mystique of the South Dakota Farm Boy as the Ideal Man, as discussed by Emily and Hillary way back in early 2006.
So I have a bit of an idealized picture of Dakotans. But I didn't know if I could ever live there.
My nephew had been very good friends with a family in South Dakota--Tim and Katie Faber, I'll call them--and their many young-adult children. When Leonard died, the Fabers were "there" for his family in intensely supportive and ongoing ways.
Some time ago the Fabers moved to a ranch in western South Dakota where they raise hay. I'm not sure if they also have cattle and sheep, but I know others in the area do. [They also put llamas out with the sheep to chase off coyotes which I find intriguing.] While I was at Mom and Dad's last week, my brother Marcus and SIL Anna went to visit Fabers for the weekend.
They came home with lots of stories about life in western South Dakota. It's rugged but not Badlands country exactly, Marcus said, and not all prairie either. Basically ranch country with buttes here and there. There are two public high schools to choose from, he said. One is 30 miles from the ranch and the other 35. The bus from the one school goes as far as 50 miles away to pick up students.
If a part breaks down on a John Deere baler, you have three John Deere dealers to choose from to get the part, but they are all about 85 miles away. So do you spend the day making a 170-mile round trip, or do you order the part and wait for it to be delivered the next day?
Tim and Katie took Marcus and Anna to a Norwegian supper at a small Lutheran church, some 60 miles away. About 200 people showed up, most likely from all directions and distances, and they all seemed to revel in the chance to talk with "neighbors" like this.
"It would take a special person to live in a place like that," I said.
"How so?" Marcus asked.
"You'd have to be ok with not being connected with people," I said. "I mean, driving through Montana and North Dakota, I'd see these houses sitting there alone in miles and miles of countryside and I thought, I don't know if I'd have it in me to live there, so far from other people."
Marcus disagreed with me. "You wouldn't believe how connected those people are with their neighbors, even if the neighbors are five or ten miles away. They really watch out for each other. If someone is making a run to the grocery store, they call each other up to see if they need anything. Someone called up Katie to see if she needed groceries, and she said she needs lettuce, and the next morning there were two heads of lettuce on the front seat of the truck. If someone is having a hard time, the neighbors help them out. People make you feel valuable, and they talk with you. On our way out there we stopped and ate at a little cafe before we went on to the ranch, and there was only one other customer, and she struck up a conversation with us and wanted to know all about us and told us about her work as an EMT."
"In fact," Marcus said, "I really think people are more connected in that part of South Dakota than they are in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania."
Wow. Maybe I could live in South Dakota after all.
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
20 Years Ago
Twenty years ago today we almost lost our son.
We were living in the wilds of Northwestern Ontario, on an Indian reserve of some 800 people. Paul taught at the little Christian school. Matt was 5, Amy 3, and Emily 1.
A child on the reserve belongs to everyone and this was especially true of our children who were stared at and gushed over and discussed and kissed everywhere they went. People loved Emily's big blue eyes and Amy's charm, but they seemed especially fascinated by Matt with his red hair and his way of going up to anyone, anywhere, and talking their ears off whether they spoke English or not. "Matchoo," people would murmur with a twinkle in their eyes. "Matchoo, Matchoo," and they would shake their heads. They couldn't understand him, but they loved him.
"Emmity-go-genes," the old people would say as they grinned indulgently at our crew. "Little white kids." And when Matt sat by the aisle in church, old men shuffling up to their seats would reach out and reverently touch his hair as they passed.
They also discussed us on the village radio. It's hard to explain the role of the local station on the reserve, not that there were any non-local stations to choose from. Everything was announced and discussed there. The time Paul took the kids out canoeing when the ice was breaking up--that got discussed on the radio. And when the other teacher's parents came to visit, the neighbor lady went on the radio and said everybody be careful driving down this way, there are two old people visiting. His parents were actually in their 40s.
We had electricity and phones at Round Lake but it still felt very isolated. During most of the year the only way in and out was by plane. The exception was from January to March, when you could bump your way out some 25 miles of bush road pushed over the frozen ground.
There was a nursing station on the reserve, and a small grocery store. The nearest doctor was some 175 miles away in Pickle Lake. The nearest hospital roughly 300 miles away. The nearest big grocery store some 400 miles.
That fall of 1991 Matthew got sick. We seemed to get sick an awful lot, so this wasn't such a big deal. He had a stomach ache for a few days and just didn't feel good. Then one night he vomited off and on all night, so I took him to the nurses in the morning. They said it's just a virus and his stomach hurts from all the vomiting.
He got a bit better but I was still concerned. Then a few nights later he woke up screaming. We took him to bed with us and he was in terrible pain and his abdomen was as hard as a board. What on earth? Finally he fell asleep and as soon as we could I laid him on a big sled and hauled him to the nursing station.
Something was obviously wrong, they said. Something had ruptured inside, but it didn't seem like appendicitis. They started an IV and said he needs to be flown out for surgery. So while they called in the air ambulance from Sioux Lookout, 300 miles away, we made hasty plans, finally deciding that Paul would fly out with him and I would stay home with the girls.
An old van drove us to the airstrip and the big sleek ambulance plane landed. They loaded Matt's stretcher inside and I tearfully told him goodbye, with that ghastly knot in the pit of my stomach that you feel when you don't know if your child will live or die.
They flew off.
Someone took us back home. I tried to do housework, and people came by all day, offering their support. The radio station announced updates whenever I got a call from Paul.
Meanwhile Paul and Matt were taken to the hospital in Sioux Lookout. Matt was evaluated. Yes, he needs surgery, although they still didn't know what for. The lone surgeon was out fishing. The policemen couldn't get their boat motor started to go fetch him.
They called the Dryden hospital. The one surgeon there was out moose hunting.
They would take him to Thunder Bay.
At 9:00 that night he went into surgery. The radio announcer told the whole village to stay awake until they knew if little Matthew Smucker would be ok.
At 10:30 I got the call that Matt was out of surgery and he would be fine. I fell to pieces from sheer relief and gratitude. Our friend Lucy Day was less sentimental. She grabbed the phone and called the radio station. They announced the news and told everyone they can go to bed now.
So we all did.
The trouble had been a Meckel's diverticulum, a little tube or pouch on the small intestine, left over from before he was born, that had a bit of stomach tissue in it. This developed an ulcer and eventually burst through the intestinal wall.
He would probably have died without the surgery, said the doctor. And, he said, looking a bit puzzled, often these cases bleed heavily before surgery but for some reason Matt's didn't.
Two weeks later, we had a blizzard and the planes couldn't fly.
So despite the ordeal we saw God's hand all over it and knew He still had a purpose for Matt's life.
Matt was in the Thunder Bay hospital for a week. The mission pilot flew me and the girls out a few days later. We hung out at the hospital and watched Matt recover.
And 20 years later Matt is all grown up with a scar across his belly button to remind him of the time he got to live and not die.
Quote of the Day:
"It hurts so bad and I'm so hungry but they won't let me eat and I told the doctor I want a hamburger but they won't let me have one."
--Matt's teary words to me when I got to the hospital which of course made me cry as well. We got him a hamburger before we left Thunder Bay a week later. Maybe this deprivation is what makes him so fond of Wendy's Baconators
We were living in the wilds of Northwestern Ontario, on an Indian reserve of some 800 people. Paul taught at the little Christian school. Matt was 5, Amy 3, and Emily 1.
A child on the reserve belongs to everyone and this was especially true of our children who were stared at and gushed over and discussed and kissed everywhere they went. People loved Emily's big blue eyes and Amy's charm, but they seemed especially fascinated by Matt with his red hair and his way of going up to anyone, anywhere, and talking their ears off whether they spoke English or not. "Matchoo," people would murmur with a twinkle in their eyes. "Matchoo, Matchoo," and they would shake their heads. They couldn't understand him, but they loved him.
"Emmity-go-genes," the old people would say as they grinned indulgently at our crew. "Little white kids." And when Matt sat by the aisle in church, old men shuffling up to their seats would reach out and reverently touch his hair as they passed.
They also discussed us on the village radio. It's hard to explain the role of the local station on the reserve, not that there were any non-local stations to choose from. Everything was announced and discussed there. The time Paul took the kids out canoeing when the ice was breaking up--that got discussed on the radio. And when the other teacher's parents came to visit, the neighbor lady went on the radio and said everybody be careful driving down this way, there are two old people visiting. His parents were actually in their 40s.
We had electricity and phones at Round Lake but it still felt very isolated. During most of the year the only way in and out was by plane. The exception was from January to March, when you could bump your way out some 25 miles of bush road pushed over the frozen ground.
There was a nursing station on the reserve, and a small grocery store. The nearest doctor was some 175 miles away in Pickle Lake. The nearest hospital roughly 300 miles away. The nearest big grocery store some 400 miles.
That fall of 1991 Matthew got sick. We seemed to get sick an awful lot, so this wasn't such a big deal. He had a stomach ache for a few days and just didn't feel good. Then one night he vomited off and on all night, so I took him to the nurses in the morning. They said it's just a virus and his stomach hurts from all the vomiting.
He got a bit better but I was still concerned. Then a few nights later he woke up screaming. We took him to bed with us and he was in terrible pain and his abdomen was as hard as a board. What on earth? Finally he fell asleep and as soon as we could I laid him on a big sled and hauled him to the nursing station.
Something was obviously wrong, they said. Something had ruptured inside, but it didn't seem like appendicitis. They started an IV and said he needs to be flown out for surgery. So while they called in the air ambulance from Sioux Lookout, 300 miles away, we made hasty plans, finally deciding that Paul would fly out with him and I would stay home with the girls.
An old van drove us to the airstrip and the big sleek ambulance plane landed. They loaded Matt's stretcher inside and I tearfully told him goodbye, with that ghastly knot in the pit of my stomach that you feel when you don't know if your child will live or die.
They flew off.
Someone took us back home. I tried to do housework, and people came by all day, offering their support. The radio station announced updates whenever I got a call from Paul.
Meanwhile Paul and Matt were taken to the hospital in Sioux Lookout. Matt was evaluated. Yes, he needs surgery, although they still didn't know what for. The lone surgeon was out fishing. The policemen couldn't get their boat motor started to go fetch him.
They called the Dryden hospital. The one surgeon there was out moose hunting.
They would take him to Thunder Bay.
At 9:00 that night he went into surgery. The radio announcer told the whole village to stay awake until they knew if little Matthew Smucker would be ok.
At 10:30 I got the call that Matt was out of surgery and he would be fine. I fell to pieces from sheer relief and gratitude. Our friend Lucy Day was less sentimental. She grabbed the phone and called the radio station. They announced the news and told everyone they can go to bed now.
So we all did.
The trouble had been a Meckel's diverticulum, a little tube or pouch on the small intestine, left over from before he was born, that had a bit of stomach tissue in it. This developed an ulcer and eventually burst through the intestinal wall.
He would probably have died without the surgery, said the doctor. And, he said, looking a bit puzzled, often these cases bleed heavily before surgery but for some reason Matt's didn't.
Two weeks later, we had a blizzard and the planes couldn't fly.
So despite the ordeal we saw God's hand all over it and knew He still had a purpose for Matt's life.
Matt was in the Thunder Bay hospital for a week. The mission pilot flew me and the girls out a few days later. We hung out at the hospital and watched Matt recover.
And 20 years later Matt is all grown up with a scar across his belly button to remind him of the time he got to live and not die.
Quote of the Day:
"It hurts so bad and I'm so hungry but they won't let me eat and I told the doctor I want a hamburger but they won't let me have one."
--Matt's teary words to me when I got to the hospital which of course made me cry as well. We got him a hamburger before we left Thunder Bay a week later. Maybe this deprivation is what makes him so fond of Wendy's Baconators
Minnesota Musings
We set a new record, Caleb and Grandma and I, door to door from here to my folks' in 26 hours. Let's just say that when you have a determined 19-year-old driver, Montana roads at night, and 3 Monster energy drinks for the driver, you cover a lot of ground in a short time.
Dad at going-on-95 tends his garden, picks apples, milks the goat, cuts wood with the chain saw, and a lot more. He has a few ongoing health issues related to his setback in April, but on my sister's advice I got some apple cider vinegar and he's on a regimen of a few tablespoons a day in a glass of water. Some people might fuss at drinking vinegar but it fits right in with Dad's philosophy that if it tastes terrible, it's probably good for you. Hence the broccoli in his oatmeal, for one minor example.
Dad has the most astonishing memory. He can pull up names and dates like his brain is Google with a high-speed connection. I'm happy to say that he's 14 pages into writing the story of his two years in Paraguay with MCC back when the Mennonite refugees were coming there from Russia. I read his story--so far--one night. He and a few other MCC volunteers took a freighter to Paraguay (actually they landed in Buenos Aires) and Dad was seasick the entire 28-day journey. Another one of the 8 or so passengers was a French guy who was involved in the movie industry, but unfortunately that was one name Dad couldn't recall.
My favorite story was how he was invited to a "tea party," a fancy affair where the MCC guys and two doctors and a few others were brainstorming about possible medical projects. Now Dad, growing up Amish in Oklahoma, was not accustomed to tea parties. They offered the options of sugar, lemon, and milk for your tea, so Dad put in all three. And, he said, it made cheese. He drank it, of course. See that previous paragraph about eating gross foods.
Mom's memory is still good for being 91, but names escape her all the time. It's very frustrating, because she has always loved to recount stories of people she worked for and all the hundreds of friends and relatives she knows, but she starts to tell a story and the name is just gone.
But there was one episode where Mom's memory was better than Dad's and mine. They had missed their grandson Jason's birthday. Oh dear. So Mom told Dad to buy a "grandson" birthday card when he went to town. Unfortunately he got a "granddaughter" card, which will be fine for Janet later this month but won't do for Jason. I was going to go to Paynesville to do my email at the library so I told her I'd pick up a card for her.
After I used the library I put my computer in the car, locked it, and went over to Twice's Nice, the cool second-hand store across from the library. And there was a whole box of cards. Bingo! I found a nice one and paid the very discounted price and went home and triumphantly gave it to Mom. She looked confused instead of pleased. "But," she said, "this one is for a granddaughter too!" She was right. What was I thinking???
On Monday I took Mom to Willmar for groceries and she picked out her own card.
Meanwhile with great effort I had managed to unlock the battleship a.k.a Pontiac doors except for the back door on the driver's side. The little knob simply wouldn't budge. I gathered, and Dad affirmed this, that those doors pretty much never get locked. I don't think the keys get pulled very often either.
You gotta love Minnesota.
Dad at going-on-95 tends his garden, picks apples, milks the goat, cuts wood with the chain saw, and a lot more. He has a few ongoing health issues related to his setback in April, but on my sister's advice I got some apple cider vinegar and he's on a regimen of a few tablespoons a day in a glass of water. Some people might fuss at drinking vinegar but it fits right in with Dad's philosophy that if it tastes terrible, it's probably good for you. Hence the broccoli in his oatmeal, for one minor example.
Dad has the most astonishing memory. He can pull up names and dates like his brain is Google with a high-speed connection. I'm happy to say that he's 14 pages into writing the story of his two years in Paraguay with MCC back when the Mennonite refugees were coming there from Russia. I read his story--so far--one night. He and a few other MCC volunteers took a freighter to Paraguay (actually they landed in Buenos Aires) and Dad was seasick the entire 28-day journey. Another one of the 8 or so passengers was a French guy who was involved in the movie industry, but unfortunately that was one name Dad couldn't recall.
My favorite story was how he was invited to a "tea party," a fancy affair where the MCC guys and two doctors and a few others were brainstorming about possible medical projects. Now Dad, growing up Amish in Oklahoma, was not accustomed to tea parties. They offered the options of sugar, lemon, and milk for your tea, so Dad put in all three. And, he said, it made cheese. He drank it, of course. See that previous paragraph about eating gross foods.
Mom's memory is still good for being 91, but names escape her all the time. It's very frustrating, because she has always loved to recount stories of people she worked for and all the hundreds of friends and relatives she knows, but she starts to tell a story and the name is just gone.
But there was one episode where Mom's memory was better than Dad's and mine. They had missed their grandson Jason's birthday. Oh dear. So Mom told Dad to buy a "grandson" birthday card when he went to town. Unfortunately he got a "granddaughter" card, which will be fine for Janet later this month but won't do for Jason. I was going to go to Paynesville to do my email at the library so I told her I'd pick up a card for her.
After I used the library I put my computer in the car, locked it, and went over to Twice's Nice, the cool second-hand store across from the library. And there was a whole box of cards. Bingo! I found a nice one and paid the very discounted price and went home and triumphantly gave it to Mom. She looked confused instead of pleased. "But," she said, "this one is for a granddaughter too!" She was right. What was I thinking???
On Monday I took Mom to Willmar for groceries and she picked out her own card.
Meanwhile with great effort I had managed to unlock the battleship a.k.a Pontiac doors except for the back door on the driver's side. The little knob simply wouldn't budge. I gathered, and Dad affirmed this, that those doors pretty much never get locked. I don't think the keys get pulled very often either.
You gotta love Minnesota.
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