An end of the year post would appear to be in order. I have been remiss in making regular posts the past few months. I even failed to shout out a Christmas greeting to my readers. My reflections of late have not lent themselves to be the subjects of posts. I could make the excuse that I was waiting for the fiscal cliff matter to be resolved by our elected officials so that I could comment on the resolution that will be forthcoming. It seems like we will have to wait another week or two before that matter is resolved. "Set aside" may be a more accurate term to describe the outcome, since it appears little will be resolved with any degree of completeness and longevity.

I have come to the conclusion that we are what we read. I recently read Backes' biography of Sigurd Olson, which caused me to reread Olson's "Reflections from the North Country." During a Christmas visit, my daughter made mention of the desire for a Boundary Waters canoe trip at some time in the future. Being already primed with the Olson reads, the mere mention of a trip at some yet to be determined future date inspired me to pull the canoe country maps out of the dresser drawer--their longterm storage site--in order to identify possible routes. When we checked in with the Forest Service before heading out on our 2004 trip, a Forest Service staff person suggested the Granite River as a possible trip. I don't recall her reasons. We could put in at Gunflint Lake and follow the Pine and Granite Rivers to Saganaga Lake taking out at an outfitter at the end of the Gunflint Trail. Gunflint Lake, the Pine, and the Granite are actually on the US and Canadian border. This area was burned in the 2007 Ham Lake fire. I have gleaned from various blogs that the fire burned hot and fast in some areas and totally avoided others. Even in the badly burned areas there has been significant regrowth, which makes for some prime moose habitat. River travel itself presents some challenges with various rapids, some of which are described as easily runnable, and others, which must be portaged.

I don't plan to spend the upcoming winter months planning summer canoe trips. I fully intend to complete a few winter hikes and at least one campout before the start of the 2013 maple syrup season. The North Country Trail section, which lies between Mellen and Drummond, WI, deserves either a repeat visit to places experienced in years past or a visit to places not yet seen.

These thoughts make for a much more positive approach to the new year in stead of ruminating on the fiscal cliff, the array of possible ramifications upon one's personal finances, and the seemingly perversion of representative government.

I wish all thoughts of creative endeavors for the new year.

I simply can't resist.

Now that the Supreme Court has agreed to hear two cases related to gay marriage, and the United States Conference of Catholic Bishops has issued a statement on that action, I feel compelled to share the following link.

http://www.yawningbread.org/apdx_2004/imp-141.htm

There is nothing more that I can say at this time and certainly nothing as well-spoken as Professor Schloesser.

It is Thanksgiving morning. I have decided to forgo my morning walk, or I have simply not decided to take a walk. It was 50 degrees when I got up at 5:30AM--not your typical Thanksgiving Day morning temperature. The forecast for tomorrow calls for temperatures in the single digits and wind chill in the below zero range.

This morning I get to watch the sunrise as I compose this entry. Now that the tilt of the earth is in its usual seasonal place for this time of the year--a never ending planetary slow dance in my interpretation, I am able to see the morning sky out of the south-facing window over my desk and through the seriously under storied balsams in the neighbor's back yard. For the past several days, the sunrise has included a horizontal ribbon of red along the horizon. If morning red skies are to be a warning to sailors, I am not sure how to interpret the dawns of the past several days. The days have been marked by partly cloudy to sunny conditions with unseasonably warn temperatures. Maybe I am confused about the timing of the warnings; they don't necessarily apply to the very day on which they appear. Could it be that particularly dire weather involves several warnings over as many days preceding the actual outbreak of seriously foul weather? If that be the case, tomorrow might mark the start of the winter of 2012-2013 with a big old exclamation point at its very outset. (This is something akin to Spanish punctuation rules where question marks are placed at the start of and the end of a statement intended as a question.)

Also to mark the change of the season, yesterday I dug out the leftover Christmas cards that had been packed with the Christmas decorations. Yes, it is also that time of the year to think about cards and letters. I have a former co-worker from a job I left in 1984, who must mail Christmas cards the day after Thanksgiving. Experience has shown that I can bank on receiving at least one Christmas card, if not by this weekend, then on Monday or Tuesday of next week. Not only the receipt of that card, but simply its anticipation motivates me to take the first step in my annual Christmas card project. Maybe this is my concession to Black Friday, since shopping--be it Christmas shopping or the regular old generic kind--will not be part of my Thanksgiving weekend activities. Early morning walks will be.

Heartfelt Thanksgiving Greetings to all my faithful and unfaithful readers.

I am satisfied with the outcome of Tuesday's election, both in national as well as local races. I also take considerable satisfaction in that I live in a part of the state where my political leanings are in the majority in terms of the presidential and senatorial races and most local races this time around, at least. During my early voting years, I went several presidential elections where I did not vote for a winner. The past couple of decades have seen a different outcome.

Leading up to an election, one can not accurately gauge the leanings of one's neighbors. Not everyone hosts yard signs or writes vociferous letters to the editor. The shrill voices, which are so often heard, may or may not be representative of the community at large.

Wisconsin shows a curious mix of Democratic and Republican victories. I suspect that Democratic interests have greater sway in statewide races and that Republican interests have greater sway in local or regional races. One can not underestimate the value of the candidate him or herself. It would be perilous to assume that party affiliation is all that matters.

A surprise this time around is voters' acceptance of gay marriage in three states and their rejection of a traditional marriage amendment in the neighboring state. I am not sure anyone predicted such a "sweep." We must keep in mind that these votes addressed the matter and concept of civil marriage and not church or sacramental marriage. This is not unlike those, who posit the indissolubility of marriage and yet accommodate civil divorce.

We can only hope that some accommodation can now be made so that critical national issues can be effectively addressed.

Roxie is back.



 

The neighborhood dog that appears to cruise the neighborhood in search of a playmate made an appearance today--the first in several months.

 

I was doing some fall clean-up and seasonal transitioning this morning, which included taking the snowblower out of summer storage and putting the lawnmower into winter storage. In the process, I started up the snowblower just to make sure it was still operational. I would just as soon not let that trial wait until the first significant snowfall. I let the snowblower run a while. I am guessing that the sound of the engine attracted Roxie, who showed up in short order with a tennis ball and in search of a thrower so that she could live out her genetic drive as a retriever. I tossed the ball while attending to my chores.

 

Roxie still has the spirit of a retriever, but is showing her age. She moves more slowly than in previous years and even favors one back leg. In past summers, she would often appear shortly after I started the lawnmower, but not so much this year. Apparently she finds the snowblower irresistible. Maybe she spent much of the summer "grounded" and restricted to her own yard or doghouse, aka "room." Whatever the explanation, it was good to have company.

 

When I started up the chainsaw to clean up a deadfall from the neighbor's yard that found its way into our yard, Roxie quickly picked up her ball and moved on--a not so dog friendly noise, I presume.

 

This past spring, when I raked the yard, I found four tennis balls that Roxie had left behind during the previous winter. Once this past summer, she took one of those balls with her when she had come by to play. I suspect that it was one of the times she showed up with a stick, that she had liberated on her cruise through the neighborhood.  I still have the remaining three balls on hand, so if she shows up with a stick, we can switch to a ball. Good throwing sticks are not easy to come by, which means Roxie will usually show up with a piece of brush that she has pulled up somewhere. It is good to have a ball available.

 

Even without Roxie's visit, this morning's outside chores reminded me how much I enjoy outside work, especially when one is not up against some deadline imposed by other commitments or foul weather on the horizon.

Two items have recently crossed my computer screen.  The first was included in an article on the Thirteenth Ordinary General Assembly of bishops currently underway in Rome on the topic of evangelization. The second was forwarded to my by a very good friend with whom I shared an admiration for the work of the Native American author, Louise Erdrich.

Here is what a prince of the Church has to say:

“Cardinal Jean-Louis Tauran, president of the Pontifical Council for Interreligious Dialogue, warned that poorly-catechized Christians should not take part in interreligious dialogue.

“Christians, often ignorant of the content of their own faith and incapable because of this of living of and for it, are not capable of interreligious dialogue that always begins with the assertion of one’s own convictions. There is no room for syncretism or relativism! Faced with adepts from other religions with a strong religious identity, it is necessary to present motivated and doctrinally equipped Christians.””  (Reported by CWN)

This is Louise Erdrich’s statement:

“The Ojibwe peoples’ earliest contact with non-Natives was with the Jesuits, so there’s a long history of entwinement of the cultures. But it’s always up to the individual priest how much he’ll allow the traditionalists into his belief system. It’s anathema to the church itself to admit the truth or goodness of any other form of religion, especially a non-Christian religion. But priests are sometimes hit over the head by the fact that they’re trying to teach spirituality to an intensely spiritual people, and they’re trying to take their spirituality away from them in order to force another form of spirituality upon them.” (Published in “Book Page, American Book Review”)

I can’t help but wonder if these two comments lay bare the disjunctures between the different levels of Church leadership and many of the clergy/hierarchy and the laity.  If the starting point of one of the parties in a conversation is that the other party has absolutely nothing to offer by way of insight into our common human condition, why should we even have a conversation? If the party presumed to be in total and absolute ignorance is not simply overwhelmed by the self-ascribed richness and totality of the other’s message, there is clear justification to browbeat or simply beat the other into submission. Many folks, who find themselves at the interface of cultures, have the kind of “a ha” experience described by Ms. Erdrich. Some certainly resort to browbeating or violence or bribery. Others feel compelled and properly so to rethink some of their preconceived notions about differing views and conceptualizations of the shared human condition.

In an earlier blog, I made a similar criticism when reflecting on the ecumenical efforts of the Church. How is it that sectarian arrogance on the part of seemingly bright individuals results in the concretizing of these positions when faced with any challenge? Is not the clear evidence of multiple and divergent claims to “the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth” ample reason to rethink and refine one’s currently held position rather than to simply double down and become more strident?

Maybe it is true, that democracy is very much a subversive activity and is seen as a direct threat by any number of contemporary human organizations—religious sects, international corporations, and political leadership. We may have moved towards and into representative governing models in several spheres—political, economic, and social—but there are lots of things left over from the age of monarchy and empire, including some of the ways by which we exercise democracy in our contemporary world. (I am currently readying “The Great Turning” by David Korten, to whom I must give credit for this observation.) Top down leadership is only as effective as the violent means those in leadership positions are willing to employ to enforce and maintain their leadership positions.

Once again, I am faced with the question: how are we to bridge these divides?

 

 

 

If the Big One upstairs gives grades for effort, I figure I earned a pretty fancy one this morning. Today's church service ran long and loud. There were several young children, who vocalized as such children are wont to do throughout the length of the service. They all must have had a good night's rest, because they were able to keep up the cacophony for more than an hour. The musicians appeared to accept the challenge and kept cranking up the volume of their voices and their instruments in an attempt either to be heard above or to drown out the din. As their volume increased, the quality of the singing and the musical accompaniment suffered. Father K. had prepared an harangue of a sermon and was committed to its delivery irrespective of the circumstances or the appropriateness of his message. He also kept increasing his volume. At some point, the louder one yells into a microphone the less intelligible one's speech becomes. He clearly refused to abbreviate his comments; the service ran all of an hour and a quarter. Maybe he got to repeating himself to make sure that we couldn't understand what we didn't understand the first time. In this battle of the bands, the clear winners were the youngsters in the pews. Maybe there is hope yet for the future of the Catholic Church.

The topic of Fr. K's sermon was "young adults no longer come to church." Interesting! The parents of the youngsters laying claim to center stage and refusing to back down in the face of either art/music or deference towards the clergy are young adults. It was as if the youngsters, as they represented several sets of parents, were shouting clearly and repeatedly: "For heaven's sake, look around. There are a bunch of young adults right here. How do you think we got here--both in terms of our simple existence and our presence in these pews?" The final kicker. Father announced that following mass there would be the baptism of a newborn. So, it wasn't like he couldn't have anticipated at least the possibility that some young adults (parents, godparents, aunts and uncles) would be in attendance today. I know that I am 66 and most everyone looks young. Trust me. This mom was young.

If this experience hadn't have been so painful on so many levels, it would have been funny.

The vehicle of good intentions can get run off the road by lots of potholes, the blinding glare of sunlight on a dirty windshield, and the confusion over the yellow and white markings--temporary and permanent--on the roadway in construction zones. That's my explanation for my failure to follow through on my intent to post more regularly as noted in my posting of August 17th. As I reread that entry, I see that I stated a "hope," and not an "intention," much less a "commitment" for more regular entries. I am not sure if that's gets me off the hook or not. Is may all depend upon the meaning of "is" or "hope," in this instance.

In any case, my blogging has been parked on the side of the road as I try to sort out, organize, and get on with ever changing circumstances. My wife's post-hospital course has been somewhat problematic--a mix of potholes, blinding glare, and confusing signage. The endpoint has also been pushed out a couple more weeks into the future. That date too is tentative. I find that I am preoccupied with things over which I have little control. Household chores can be an effective diversion; writing is not. The circumstances insist on dominating what ends up on paper or in digital format. It is like having a very persuasive back seat driver, who can effectively overrule every one of the intentions that you--the behind the wheel driver--has about destination, the route to be taken, and the speed to be travelled.

Hopefully, I can find a way to either jettison the back seat driver or to override his/her persuasiveness. Puppetji advises a mind diet in order to reduce the amount of excess intellectual baggage being lugged around.

As of Monday evening (August 13th), our household was back intact. It was a long day of making, revising, and finalizing plans so that my wife could be discharged from the hospital. Since that time, I have found myself trying to figure out how to accommodate the changes in our situation. In some respects the circumstances are very different than they have been since September 2011; in other ways, they are much the same. There are still wound dressings, but a different type with a different schedule. There is also a homecare nurse, who is responsible for the actual dressing changes. I certainly appreciate being relieved of this duty. I worry about being able to manage an open wound longterm without introducing an infection and being able to identify subtle changes that would indicate an infection or other complication. The technology involved in the care of such a wound can also be daunting for the inexperienced and untrained. I suspect that after a year, I can no longer claim inexperience.

I hope to be able to resume moreorless regular entries in this blog. I have been reading and have accumulated a small stack of notes on thoughts and ideas, but these activities have not been able to break through my overriding concerns of the past four weeks. The topics are also quite diverse, yet there seems to be an underlying and common thread. Any apparent thread may simply be my attempt to tie things together; I continue to be convinced that people of genuine good will can get together, can acknowledge the sincerity of the other's position, and accept this diversity as enriching the whole of human experience and knowledge. Rodney King's question often comes to mind; "Can't we all get along?" This world is too small a place--the result of technology, geographical mobility, and the internationalization of so many aspects of our lives--that we cannot reasonably expect to live segregated lives. Our objective must be more than tolerance of the ignorance of others, that is, those different; ecumenism can not be a cover for evangelization, if we are to forge reasonable bonds across our divisions.

Last month I read two works by Kathleen Dean Moore; at least one of which was the subject of an earlier blog entry. I was able to locate the author's email address (Oregon State University) and sent a brief thank you note. What was even more surprising, than the fact that I received an answer, was that the author's response was sent less than three hours after my original email. Since this was the author's work email (She is a university professor.), I figured that even if I would receive a response, it would come after Labor Day.

What was originally estimated to be a seven-to-ten day hospital stay has morphed into a three-weeker. During the time since my last posting, base camp has been struck a number of times, interspersed with a similar number of brief returns home. We are now working towards a discharge date and return home on Monday, the 13th.

Much more unsettling than the prolonged hospital stay, the scheduled surgery was not as successful as originally outlined. This period of hospitalization was suppose to bring closure to a process that began last summer. My wife is now facing another surgery at a yet undetermined date. We trust that it will be sooner rather than later. That means there will be at least one more medical vacation for the non-hospitalized spouse.

I was either asked or the suggestion was made that I make up a pot of pea soup so that it is ready for the homecoming. The soup is now sitting on the back of the stove, where it will cool a bit, before being repackaged and placed in the refrigerator. There is a part of a loaf Swedish rye and a block of Colby cheese on hand for grilled cheese sandwiches to accompany the soup. If we are able to ascertain the medical/healing properties of pea soup with grilled cheese, these will become the subject of a future posting.

For much of this week and for the next several days, I have been and will will be "base camped" at a motel in Duluth, MN while my wife remains hospitalized following a scheduled surgery which will, hopefully and prayerfully, bring some closure to the condition that resulted in the two month hospital stay during the summer of 2011.

While "in camp," I have kept up with my ritual early morning walks. Rather than the streets and fringe areas of my current hometown, I have been enjoying the early morning quiet of Superior Street and London Road. This morning, I took the opportunity to access the Lake Walk as a change of pace and environment. The Lake Walk is a spectacular piece of urban environment. The local media frequently and rightfully sings the praises of this attraction. On one side, there is the lake--at 5:00AM this morning no more than rippled like frosting on an enormous sheet cake with a salmon colored ribbon of morning sky marking the boundary of lake and sky. The lake's surface holds a laker at anchor and supports a pair of pleasure crafts heading out to a day of sport fishing (I surmise). The other side of the path, there is ample evidence of man's tinkering--everything from an aerial lift bridge, to modern shoreline inns, to remnants of Nature destroyed and/or abandoned harbor structures, to weighty retaining walls built either of local stone or poured concrete. This multiple colored ribbon of park-like environment marks the boundary between lake and land and, in its own way, is respectful of both.

The section of Lake Walk, where I spent some time this morning, also includes the Northland Korean War and Viet Nam War memorials. The latter includes the names of the 25 individuals, who called Northwestern Wisconsin home some 40 years ago, and who then ventured far afield returning later to stay under very different, but not wholly unexpected, circumstances--evidence of man's tinkering.

This past week I often found myself thinking about an upcoming anniversary. Today would have been Dad's 100th birthday. This is one of the mental ramblings that I have from time to time and have reservations about blogging about. What changed my mind or convinced me to give it a try? Here goes.

Yesterday was Woody Guthrie's 100th birthday. It is interesting to make note of the peers of one's parents. Okemah, OK is a far distance from Becker, MN, but one only wonders if many of the same forces may have been in play in both settings leading up to the dust bowl in the Great Plains which, one can only surmise, may well have reached into the sand country of central Minnesota. Woody and Dad shared a common socio-political-cultural America during a substantial and very tumultuous period of the 20th century. A cursory review of their individual biographies reveals very different responses to those environmental forces. I wonder if a closer read would reveal some quite unexpected similarities? The big events in history don't just happen to the men and women, who get to be named in history books or have their births commemorated by their hometowns, it also happens to those, who pass their lives with considerably less notoriety and have the anniversaries of their births and deaths noted only by immediate family members.

This week I have been reading Wendell Berry (Life is a Miracle). Happenstance, I can only presume. Woody's This Land Is Your Land is a heartfelt plea from a slightly different perspective than Berry's central question: "How can one become genuinely and honorably native to one's place?" The search for place continues from one generation to the next. Or is it that members of each generation must mount his or her own struggle to become native, that is, to become "at home?"

The Pine Island Paradox has been a great read. The paradox of islands is, on one hand, they are "symbols of isolation and exile" and, on the other hand, they are "highpoints in the continuous skin of the planet" evidence of "the wholeness of being" and "intricate interdependencies." I can certainly say that this isn't the philosophy of my youth (read undergraduate years), even though the author certainly knows that philosophy well. The author, Kathleen Dean Moore, is a philosopher (PhD in the Philosophy of Law) and chair of the Philosophy Department at Oregon State University. In her youth, Dr. Moore called Ohio home, has won the Sigurd Olson Nature Writing Award, visited Aldo Leopold's farm on the Wisconsin River, and has her books published by Milkweed Editions of Minneapolis, MN; she has midwestern roots to accompany graduate work in Colorado and an academic career in Oregon. I came away from her book with a sense that really big water--the open Pacific Ocean--and the mountains of the Oregon, Washington, Canadian, and Alaskan coast can get a grip on a person with a squeeze that one feels to his/her mutually shared core. In a more modest fashion, the Great Lakes region with big water, heights of land, and indeterminate boundaries between land, water, and sky can have a similar hold on a person. Then there are also memories of sitting on the sand at Cam Rahn Bay and looking out over the South China Sea.

Dr. Moore re-introduced me to some concepts, such as, ecological philosophy, and introduced me to some new ones, such as, moral ecology, ethics of care, and ground-truthing. After reading and rereading Archbishop Chaput's homily given on July 4th marking the closing of the Fortnight of Freedom, I am left with the question: can this gap ever be bridged? How do we even communicate across it? No wonder nations go to war and folks come to blows as they shout across from one real or imagined canyon boundary to another in a language unintelligible to one other and yet spoken in the same dialect. The gap unseen by so many is in the underlying philosophy: How we think about who and what we are as human persons? What is our connection and relationship to this physical world? How we know what we know?

More later. Maybe. Maybe not.

I have been thinking of making use of my Amazon account to purchase a couple of books. The total cost of the two just exceeds the $25.00 minimum to qualify for free shipping. (The double purchase is, in effect, a cost saving measure.)  During the past couple of weeks, there seems to have been a coming together of various bits 'n' pieces from varied sources. I will try to walk through my perception/thinking process without tripping or getting lost.

The two books are: The Presidents and Their Faith by Darrin Grinder and Bad Religion by Ross Douthat. One of D. Grinder's premises is that experience, rather than affiliation with and participation in a faith tradition, determines the moral choices made by an individual, even presidents. R. Douthat's premise is that the American Christian tradition is largely responsible for its own demise.

A few weeks back, Chris Hayes had Jonathan Haidt as a guest. He is the author of Why Good People Are Divided. He speaks about the concept of "confirmation bias." Intuitions precede reasoning. All of us look for and develop a rationale for our positions after we have effectively "decided" upon those positions. Let us acknowledge "justification after the fact;" increased civility will likely ensue. I prefer to think of it as "affection" rather than "intuition." We fall in love with or become aware that we simply like something. We then go about selectively gathering data and establishing a supporting rationale to intellectually legitimize where our "hearts" have taken us in the first place.

The Supreme Court's decision on the Affordable Care Act and Chief Justice Roberts' role gets tossed into this mix as well. The long term consequences and equally unintended consequences of this decision are yet to unfold.  And finally, the appointment of Bishop Gerhard Mueller by Pope Benedict to head the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith appears to be another one of those "sit up and take notice" events. Just when everything seems to point to a return to 1567, the Pope picks an individual for a crucial position, who is considered a heretic by the traditionalists in the Church. Is the Spirit at work or has the Pope acted on his affection for a long term associate?

We aren't out of the woods just yet--reference the article reporting on the recent re-ordination of six former Episcopal priests within the personal ordinate for those Anglican/Roman Catholics. One of the newly re-ordained is quoted several times citing the reason for his decision to affiliate with Rome, that being his desire for an absolute authority. I am not so sure that absolute certainty in any area of human knowledge, as well as in faith and morals, is within the capacity of the well formed human intellect. From a religious perspective, there would be no need for faith, if there was absolute certainty or a legitimate expression of absolute authority within the sphere of human activity.

Where does all this end up? Did I trip up or trip you up? Am I lost or did I get you lost? For me, I come away with a good deal of optimism. Or is it just my own confirmation bias? If it is, that's okay too. For now, I will continue reading The Pine Island Paradox by Kathleen Dean Moore and take comfort.

I suppose that with the longest periods of daylight and the shortest periods of darkness with the summer solstice just past, we can expect that typically nocturnal visitors will now be up and about during daylight hours. It is a little disconcerting when those visitors are black bears. Saturday evening at 9:30, such a visitor tore down the thistle feeder. I decided to remove the hummingbird feeder as well, when I tackled the clean-up. The goldfinches and hummingbirds will have to go elsewhere--go natural.

Last evening at 6:30, another bear strolled through the yard apparently on a search for supper. I know it was a different bear, because
Saturday's visitor was sporting a red tag in each ear. Yesterday's visitor has not yet been fitted with such jewelry.

I received an email from a neighbor, which reported on a bear's visit to and destruction of the service or juneberry tree on the corner of his lot. This took place a couple of nights ago. The tree was planted a few years ago as part of the city's urban forestry/beautification project. It now appears that the planning will now need to take into account not only road salt, snowplowing, overhead utility wires, but also the risk of bear predation.

My April 26th posting reported on an earlier daytime bear visit. I guess I was lulled into a false sense of security since two  months had passed without a daytime bear sighting. From now on, I will try to remember the camera so as to record the visuals.

I see from my nephew's blog that he is on a road trip these days--a kind of whirlwind tour of the west--the "west" in midwestern speak--the tall and short grass prairies--the land of wagon trains, cowboys, Indians, buffalo, and antelope. For east coasters, the west is California, Nevada, Oregon, and Washington State.

I wander if my nephew is anything like me and that he saves his sinnin' for when he's on he road. I reserve certain activities to indulge in only when I am on the road, that is, out of town. I haven't sorted out my motivation for this segregation of behaviors unless it is to safeguard my reputation in my own mind. My on-the-road bucket list includes: buying a single powerball ticket at gas and refreshment stops, having a Quik Trip donut to go with the coffee-to-go in a disposable cup including a three-part plastic lid, and buying a bag of caramel corn to accompany the single serving sized chocolate milk in lieu of an afternoon coffee break.

Caramel corn has a sordid history in our family. Dad would buy a single bag of caramel corn, when the carnival came to town rolled into town on its annual circuit. The carnival was appropriately named "Mardi Gras," so letting go of social constraints was community sanctioned. (For those readers looking to cut loose this summer, the 2012 Northland Mardi Gras is scheduled for July 19th thru 22nd. There's your opportunity to hang out with carnies and get those fingers  and the steering wheel during the drive back home sticky with caramel corn residue.)

My experience is clear evidence that the slippery slope phenomenon is a reality, not only with gateway drugs but also with caramel corn. Does this make caramel corn the next gateway drug? Rather than the one-time-a-year in the style of the previous generation, I indulge several times a year. Early in my career, I received a caramel corn recipe from an older co-worker (a woman, at that), so I have been known to cook up a batch at home. Does that mean I am setting up some descendant to be cooking up a little meth in the back bedroom at some future date? The dude will probably be singing Family Tradition by Hank Williams, jr.

Back to my nephew for a moment. I wonder what kind of example his father, my brother, gave him and his brother in terms of on-the-road sins, that is, acceptable violations of good taste and right living in which to indulge when out-of-town. Playing the accordion in public comes to mind, but I probably shouldn't go there. But I just went there, so I will stop now.

With the 40th anniversary approaching on June 17th, The Washington Post has published an article titled "Woodward and Bernstein: 40 years after Watergate, Nixon was far worse than we thought." Its an unsettling read as it brings back memories of unfinished business, lost opportunities, and the subversion of fairplay and justice. It also gives rise to the question: Is the current ship of state in any better condition or repair and staffed by those heeding a higher call?

Whenever I see Henry Kissinger or Patrick Buchanan getting some air time as a talking head, a reported expert, or some sort of elder statesman, I cringe. It is my opinion that neither deserves to be afforded any such dignity; neither has, to my knowledge, ever acknowledged the crimes in which they participated or with which they were associated. P. Buchanan has more than once passed his involvement with the Nixon white house off as little more than high school sophomoric hijinks.

Then there is an article in today's local newspaper with a brief account of the return of the remains of Lt. William Swanson, a Navy pilot lost over Laos in April 1965. Yes, Richard. Yes, Henry. Yes, Patrick. There are grave consequences of our decisions and behaviors. Tragically, it is often from others that the consequences of one's behaviors are extracted and at great price. I know that Richard Nixon was not the president in 1965; I am not suggesting that this triumvirate was personally linked to Lt. Swanson's death. In June 2012, these events are linked; one celebrates its 40th anniversary in ignominy, and the other marks a long delayed burial at Fort Snelling National Cemetery.

(I am certain there is more to this bit of history in which Lt. Swanson was a central figure. His aircraft was lost in April 1965, seven months before the official start of the Viet Nam War on November 1, 1965.)

Aged dandelion wine and fresh mozzarella cheese! How do those fit together?

Earlier this spring as a neighbor and I sat at the table drinking tea and taking note of this year’s first dandelion bloom, the discussion turned to the topic of dandelion wine. My neighbor apparently had a passing acquaintance with dandelion wine in years past, but never had the opportunity to imbibe. Always one to want to help out a friend, I noted that my Mom had, at times, a representative sample of dandelion wine in her cellar tucked in someplace near the pickled beets. I figured there might well be some left knowing how guardedly such wine would be dispensed on the occasion of a special holiday dinner. I came up with the idea that I would ask my Mom for a sample, so that I could offer my neighbor a taste; he could then delete one more thing from his bucket list.

Mom came through and readily supplied me with a tasting carafe of dandelion wine—a 12 ounce jelly jar full to the shoulder and appropriately labeled with masking tape.

Last evening was the special event. The neighbor and his wife joined my wife and me for the First Annual Memorial Day Weekend Wine ‘n’ Cheese Celebration.

Earlier in the week, as I pulled together plans for the Friday evening portion of this weekend’s extravaganza, I struggled with a menu. I needed something to accompany, to augment, to contribute to the ambiance of the event. I settled on a cheese, fruit, and cracker plate. The struggle continued as to the selection of cheese. With the choices available at a local grocery store, I settled on soft mozzarella. I had one prior experience with fresh mozzarella several years ago in the Twin Cities at a combined Father’s Day and Wife/Mother’s birthday celebration. (I think my memory serves me right on that.) Fresh mozzarella was served as an appetizer with fresh tomato wedges, olive oil, and crusty bread. There were fond memories of that event, so I gambled on being able to bring some fondness to this event. Soft mozzarella might just be the proper vehicle.

Fresh mozzarella proved to be an excellent choice to accompany dandelion wine, whole wheat snack crackers, and fruit. The latter was an apple preserve that I found (read: impulse purchase) at the local Pamida, which is in the process of changing over to a downsized Shopko, so all of their current merchandise is discounted.

This morning I am still heady with the success with which I pulled off last evening’s inaugural event of the 2012 summer season’s first holiday weekend. I am sure it will only build as the day proceeds. This morning’s event is a breakfast of oatmeal with raisins and brown sugar. Following that, the remainder of the weekend is unscripted.

By the way, there was no wine left when we called it an evening. Do you think Mom will think we were indiscreet in that we drank it all in one sitting?

I certainly am not one to often suggest that the Catholic Church hierarchy return to doing things the old way, that is, as were done prior to 1968. Yet when it comes to gay marriage, I think there is much to learn from the old way.

In the old days, the Catholic Church had a much nuanced system in place to address the differences and distinctions between “church marriages” (An updated terms might well be “sacramental marriage.”) and civil marriages. Multiple circumstances were taken into consideration: Were one or both parties baptized Catholics or baptized non-Catholic Christians? Was the witness to the marriage a Catholic clergyperson or a non-Catholic clergyperson or a civil official? Was either party married previously? Both civil or legal separations and divorces were available to Catholics, who found themselves in seriously problematic marriages. With respect to divorce, there was one caveat; a Catholic did not remain in good standing with the Church, if he/she exercised the right to remarry, which is encompassed in a civil divorce. An additional step was required, that is, a decision by Church authorities that a significant impediment to the marriage was present at its inception, so that a church or sacramental marriage had, in fact, never taken place. Some of the impediments accepted by the Catholic Church were over and above those accepted by the civil authorities.

Would it not be possible to incorporate much of this view into the debate about civilly sanctioned gay marriage? I realize there is one significant difference. This time the discussion is about homosexual couples and not heterosexual couples. Should that make a difference? Morality is morality. Right? I suspect that the Catholic Church hierarchy has decided that it currently has the political power or capital to be a player on national and state legislative stages that it might successfully advocate for its position to be incorporated into civil law. Even if that appraisal is valid, is it prudential to exercise that clout, both in terms of the current state of affairs and in the realization that the social and political milieu never remains quite the same? Will the current actions of the Catholic hierarchy set the stage for a very unwelcome struggle and a disastrous outcome at a future date once all moral capital has been exchanged for political capital and after that capital has been fully spent? The phenomenon of unintended consequences is very real, in addition to blow-back. I am more concerned with the former than the latter. Unintended does not mean unforeseen or unforeseeable. In other words, there is responsibility for unintended consequences. (I was reminded of this once again as I read Joan Chittisher’s May 16^th column in National Catholic Reporter, where she references Gerard Noel’s book, Pius XII: The Hound of Hitler.)

During the old days, I recall no discussion as to how the civil or state system demeaned or detracted from marriage as conceptualized and practiced by the Catholic Church. The differences were recognized and worked around. Each system appeared to respect the other. Church officials appreciated the accommodation by the state that clergypersons were able to witness marriages as representatives of the state. Couples did not have to undergo both church and civil ceremonies. At the same time, I will acknowledge that for divorced Catholics, the lack of consistency between the two systems was problematic and the source of considerable distress for individuals, nuclear families, and extended families. With the subsequent developments in the annulment process following the Second Vatican Council, some of these concerns were addressed. In my estimation, further developments are warranted in terms of the transparency, accessibility, and intellectual honesty inherent in the process. Some 40+ years ago as an undergraduate, I raised a question with respect to Church annulments. I did not receive a satisfactory response at that time; nor have I seen any discussion of the issue during the subsequent four decades. That may be the topic for a subsequent entry.

Despite the popularity of the Stieg Larsson’s The Girl… trilogy, I have not been inclined to either read the books or see the movie. On the other hand, I was intrigued enough to check out the Larsson’s biography by Barry Forshaw, when I saw it in the local library. The dust jacket on the book makes mention of the author’s other work as a journalist investigating right wing groups in northern Europe. That comment was made even more intriguing by the observation that an author’s real life can be more exciting than that of any of the characters one might create. Since I have also been following the Anders Breivik trial, I decided to give the biography a read.

It was a good read. The rather  brief overview of Larsson’s life story simply sets the stage for a lengthy discussion of the trilogy and crime fiction in general. I enjoyed the discussion. I am not a fan of crime fiction, but I came away with the idea that I would try to read a little vintage crime fiction. The American author, Dashiell Hammett, was cited several times in this work. I recognized the name. Years ago, I happened upon a biography of Hammett, the creator of Nick Charles and Sam Spade. Hammett is also one of those authors, whose real life is more exciting than that of his characters. Hammett was the veteran of two world wars. In the early 50’s, he spent time in a federal penitentiary for contempt of court, when he refused to cooperate with Smith Act trials. When he died 10 years later, he was buried in Arlington National Cemetery.

Back in the library to return the Larsson biography and to find a Hammett work, I found a single volume collection of Hammett’s five detective novels—complete and unabridged. I made it through the first one, Red Harvest, before I set the book aside and went looking for something else to read. It is still on my desk. I probably will return it without reading any more. The writing style is great. Characters are described in such a way that they are easily and vividly perceived by the reader’s mind’s eye. The physical and socio-political settings for the story are part and parcel of the narrative and come across with unvarnished validity.

According to Forshaw, crime fiction (It appears that “crime fiction” is the British term for what Americans commonly refer to as detective novels.) has as its central theme the corruption of society on all levels with the only corrective force being the intervention of a special individual.  In this literary genre, that would be either (1) the police detective, who stands out from his peers by reason of his moral uprightness, cunning, and skill, or (2) the private investigator, who skillfully operates on the fringes of propriety, but never for personal gain, or (3) the eccentric character (matronly grandmother, computer nerd/hacker, journalist, etc.), who operates outside of societal norms, if not the law. This same premise seems to be the core of superhero fiction as well. The remedy affected by the hero/heroine or superhero/heroine is at best a temporary fix; it is as if every remedy contains the seeds of the next aberration—a rather unsettling view of human “progress.”

 
I am done with crime fiction/detective novels, at least for now. The real stuff is just as exciting. If I am going to be disturbed by social injustice or the capriciousness of the human condition, I may as well set the novels aside and read the real stuff. After I completed and set aside Red Harvest, I found Richard Hammer’s The Vatican Connection in one of the boxes of books that I have accumulated over the past 45 years. It’s the story of a real cop, but, unlike the fictional version, he never gets all the way to the top. There are those that are protected and insulated, so that their activities are never brought into the daylight and they can never be held responsible. There does not appear to even be the satisfaction of a temporary fix, some assurance that crime doesn’t pay, or that honesty might really be the best policy.

With the upcoming Wisconsin governor recall election, the appearance of vitriolic ads and yard signs, and the invitation/challenge presented by a neighbor in his blog, I have been trying to come up with a design for my own homemade yard sign.

What do you think of this idea?

5-8-12                       6-5-12

VOTE RESPONSIBLY

Consider Your Neighbor's

Interests

As Well As Your Own

I wonder if there will be some unintended consequences should such signage appear in my front yard. Experience has shown that I don't always accurately gauge the reactions of others to my great ideas. Somethings well intentioned on my part have resulted in a negative reaction in others. I need to think this matter through. There are a few more days before the primary. I may even run the idea by a neighbor, who lives the next street over.  



For me the frequently heard reference to “natural law” is problematic in the discussions of human behavior and the appropriate societal limits on such behavior. The phrase is used without qualification and seemingly with the presumption that it is as clear as the proverbial “nose on my face” to all readers or listeners. If the phrase is qualified by the adjective Judeo-Christian, then the concept is severely limited. If the caveat “guided by reason and faith” is added, it is similarly limited. When one asks for clarification or elaboration, the response is often an ad hominem attack.

Here is an example that speaks to the adolescent logician, who continues to reside within me. In a recent search of some of literature on natural law, a particular author noted that St. Thomas Aquinas had determined that polygamy was consistent with natural law theory, but polyandry was not. (I am sorry that I don’t have the full citation.) This may be why I have never seen a reference to Aquinas in defense of any of the marriage amendments that are making the rounds in various states.

Where does this leave us? Natural law is supposedly not subject to change or modification over time. Was St. Thomas in error? If so, what other errors have not yet been corrected and continue to be passed off as natural law, moral imperatives, and the sole legitimate basis for civil codes?

My sense is that the entire physical world is evolutionary. It follows, that out of a sense of humility (acknowledging the limitations of our own species' genius), we need to view the whole of human intellectual activity as evolutionary or developmental. The proper human stance is to remain studiously open to such development, i.e. change. We don’t always get it right or make the best choice the first go-a-round, but we have the responsibility to keep on looking.

This mother of two was caught on camera visiting the neighbor's Wildlife Buffet (read: dumpster) for a late lunch this afternoon. I was not able to get a photo of the cubs. It was very surprising and highly unusual to catch these fellas in town mid-day. They usually wait until the cover of darkness. I hope this behavior is not related to a scarcity of available food in the wild or to a loss of caution on the part of this bear with respect to humans. She was not sporting any ear tags, which are indicative of a trapped and relocated bear.

In spite of the city having a leash law, there are a number of neighborhood dogs running free during much of the day. There would seem to be the potential for a violent encounter with the likelihood of a chance meeting.

For now, I will exercise a degree of caution as I head out the door or walk around a corner of the house.

After a couple of days of more seasonal temperatures and 2 or more inches of snow earlier this week, the abnormal normal of this spring has returned with overnight low temperatures above freezing and rain to melt the last remaining bits of snow from Sunday and Monday. It is not clear if the first growth of the mystery lilies, Asian lilies, irises, or hostas has been damaged by this short stretch of wintry weather. The bleeding heart gave me the most concern, but it too appears to have weathered the storm.

Even though it was raining at the time of my usual morning walk, I felt that was an inadequate reason to cancel. Monday morning's walk took place in bitter cold and a stiff wind. The conditions yesterday morning weren't much better, so I let myself be convinced to stay inside. This morning there was enough remorse left over from yesterday's decision to skip the walk to motivate me to head out in light rain. Conditions proved to be comfortable with temperatures in the mid-40's. In addition to the motivation to expiate yesterday's guilt, a rain jacket and waterproof footwear were also very helpful.

Recently, I find myself more and more frequently facing the dilemma of the selection a topic for a blog entry and the manner in which I will treat that topic. Another way of saying that would be: I am unsure just how far to open that inside door. I organized this blog so that it would be shrouded in a certain degree of anonymity, but it is far from totally anonymous. My original intent may have been to use the blog as something akin to a personal journal. Now that I am doing it, I am not so sure that objective is being met and that desire or need is being fulfilled. Maybe I should write fiction so that I could hide behind my characters and excuse intimate disclosures and ruminations as "just that character." I have tried journaling and found it lacking. In retrospect, I may have been too undisciplined in my method.

I find myself thinking just how transient our reality is along with our individual experience of that reality and our individual interpretation of that reality/experience. It is like a moving target, a moving platform for the shooter, and a strobe light as the only illumination. If there is to be some sense of consistency achieved in all this, it is something that I have to bring to the experience; I cannot expect to find it in the experience external from myself. Once again, I am reminded that living well takes genuine effort.

Happy Easter to all my readers.

Please celebrate the season in a way that is meaningful to you so that you meaningfully experience your transcendent humanity and the transcendent humanity that we all have in common. The effort will be appreciated.

If someone is looking for an intellectual work-out, you may find the following blog helpful:
http://blog.kennypearce.net/ 

Even though I find that much of it reads like a foreign language (Read: Beyond my comprehension.), I find gems and incendiary sparks that get me to thinking.

The bears are out and about town.

A few days ago a bruin came through during the night and broke up the bird feeder which I was using for sunflower meats. The process of elimination leads me to conclusion that the culprit was a bear. Several days previously I had removed the suet feeder figuring that was more vulnerable to such a beast. This feeder was a homemade one that required some repair and modification a few years back, when it was raided by a bear. I am not sure if I will repair it or replace it this time around. I have now replaced the bird feeder with the birdbath. I am no longer serving lunch; I am providing a drinking and bathing establishment. Some years ago, I had to fashion a replacement base for the birdbath, after it was tipped and the original base damaged beyond repair. The process of elimination didn't help me identify the culprit on that occasion. It may have been a bear or a large dog or a neighbor taking a short cut through the yard in the dark.

This morning as I was finishing up by morning walk, I caught sight of a large black bear exiting some one's lawn and heading into the woods. It was on the edge of town and along a state highway. I was surprised to see a bear in this area at 7:30AM. Past experience has shown that bears will leave town as dawn breaks.

I would like to put out a thistle feeder for finches, but I am not sure how to mount it to eliminate the bear problem. Experience has shown that bear will tackle thistle feeders. The evidence on that occasion was bite marks and a smashed feeder. Hummingbird feeders are also a thing of the past. Garbage cans are kept in a storage shed. To date, there has been no evidence of an attempted breaking and entering.

Thirty-five days and counting.

One advantage to living in the retired state is fewer trips to the service station to fill up the vehicles. I last did a fill-up for the truck on March 2nd; as of this date, there remains a little more than a quarter tank. When working, a typical month accounted for three trips to the service station. (It isn't simply due to greater use of our second vehicle either.)   I credit it to my reliance on good old fashioned shoe leather for most trips to the post office, the library, and meeting a friend for breakfast. It feels good to make those round trips the old fashioned way and to take note of the savings, when expenses are totalled up at month's end. I also take satisfaction in knowing that I am contributing just a little bit less to the profits of the oil companies.

I stumbled upon a blog yesterday, that I intend to follow: "The Contrary Farmer" by Gene Logsdon. In past times, I have read some his traditionally published works, which I also stumbled upon but that was during my treks through the stacks of the local library. There were two recent entries, the titles of which caught my eye. I was not disappointed. One was a lighter treatment of a subject, and the other was a much more intimate treatment of its subject. The first is titled "Talking to Animals," and the second is "Secret Crying Places." (Okay. I will readily admit that the latter is very much a guy thing.) The jewel in the piece is the connection that Gene makes between tears of sadness and tears of joy. It may well be true that our ability to experience emotional highs is in direct proportion to our ability to experience the lowest lows. In that context, sadness and grief are but small prices to pay for the ability to experience the other end of the emotional spectrum. It is as if we have to run off the road a little every now and again, off on the gravel shoulder, or even down in the ditch, in order to fully appreciate just how great the ride is when we are on the roadway and especially in the passing lane.

Gene's blog called to mind the process that is currently underway by the American Psychiatric Association to update its diagnostic manual. On the topic of grief, the proposed revision has been criticised for pathologizing normal sadness and grief by permitting a diagnosis of Major Depressive Espisode as soon as two weeks after the death of an important individual in one's life.  At that point, the experience apparently becomes a diagnosable disorder, which merits treatment and within the current context that would most likely entail pharmacological treatment. Another article spoke of the two month limit that employers can "legitimately" establish for bereavement. After that date, the employee may be subject to disciplinary action, if the "problem" persists.

Having lived my life--at least that portion allocated to date--as an introspective melancholiac (I use that term in very much the same manner with which it was employed in medieval physiology.), I feel much more kinship with Mr. Logsdon's insights than I do with the machinations of the American Psychiatric Association.

Yesterday The Boundary Waters Catalog, 2012 Spring & Summer Edition (Piragis Northwords Co., Ely, MN), arrived. This morning there was an unsolicited email in the inbox from ReserveAmerica, which is the private contractor used by the National Forest Service to process applications for entry permits for the BWCAW/Superior National Forest.

BAM! I suspect my response was akin to that of a hard-core gardener and the arrival of that first seed catalog of the season and, in particular, if that would be the Jung seed catalog.

I was inclined to dig out a sierra cup, brew up a fresh pot of coffee, and sit right down to page through the catalog. I made due with a regular kitchen mug. (I did not want to create a stir with the spouse--attempting to explain the unexplainable--unless one has also been there.) I am not sure what it is with thwart bags and solo canoes, but I found myself lingering over the descriptions, the dimensions (8" x 16" x 3"), and weights (49 lb. in Royalex and 43 lb. Tuf. Flex).

I often wonder if there will be another canoe camping trip in my future. There will not be one this year. Maybe I should bring the AlumaCraft out of its longterm storage place in a back corner of the yard next to the compost pile of yard waste. I could clean off the grim that has accumulated over the past two winters (It has spent last two summers "on the bench" as well.), in anticipation of a daytime paddle on Chequamegon Bay during the upcoming summer months. I am thinking that just being prepared for such a possibility would refreshen the memories from previous trips. Those will have to do for now.

It may not yet be the tourist season, but the bear season appears to be upon us.

During my walk early this morning, I came across the dumpster next to the Headstart building tipped over and its contents strewn about. I am glad the culprit finished his rummaging before 6:00AM, so that I didn't have the occasion to interrupt his/her early breakfast. When I returned home, I removed the suet feeder, which had hung off the deck the past 4 or 5 months. In past years it has provided a late night snack for a bear. In recent years, our garbage cans have been kept in a small storage shed without incident. When they were kept outside, I found myself with the unwelcome task of picking up garbage before leaving for work--a task worth avoiding. Our next door neighbor has a dumpster, which continues to be raided on occasion in season. The most inconvenient part of these incidents is when the raiders decide to bring the goodies into our yard. They apparently prefer to picnic under the pine trees rather than enjoy their pickings sitting next to a smelly dumpster.

Is there a message in this post? There most certainly is. Don't smell like garbage and don't linger a long time in any one place. That probably is good advice for all of us any time of the year and in any number of circumstances.

After being out of town for a few of days over the weekend, we came home to a mixed bag of weather. Daytime temperatures are more normal, read: "colder," yet the bay is ice-free. The water has taken on a blue color so characteristic of summer, but I suspect that is due to the full sunlight of a rather cloudless sky than seasonal. There is also more green to the lawn, but a long way--I hope--from lawnmower length. The only moisture in the forecast is rain with the possibility of freezing rain. I have yet to put the snowblower into its summer storage location and to remove the lawnmower from its winter storage location. The weather forecast is not the basis for this decision. It is just that I am not so sure I am done with the former and soon to be in need of the latter.

Before leaving on our short trip out of town, I learned there are limits to the flexibility of the car antenna. The garage door decided to close part way as I was backing in and caught the antenna. The antenna was separated from its base. The repair involved a new base. Thanks to the internet, I was able to find detailed instructions on the removal of the interior dome light to access the screw, which secures the antenna base to the vehicle. The task went so smoothly this morning, that I took the time to vacuum the floor mats, which had managed to gather a visible sum of sand in our modest travels. What did I learn from that? Sometimes going to church is an untidy matter.

I did something today that I am quite certain I never did during any previous month of March; I raked much of the yard. Even the sole remaining snowbank at the end of the driveway gave way to the rake. It was the consistency of grits. (That imagery is out of deference to the recent southern primaries.) There have been years when Memorial Day weekend has found me dealing with the last of a snowbank in that particular location.

The temperature this afternoon is 75 degrees; there are three days of rain forecast for this coming week with temperatures in the 60's. I figured it was time to tend to the raking chore. The grass is greening up in places; dandelions are a lovely green in time for St. Patrick's Day; the irises and mystery lilies also show new growth. Raking after things have had a chance for break-out spring growth is more difficult and damaging.

The gutter and downspout was also cleaned. It is somewhat unusual for me to do that chore on a sunny day. I usually do it in the rain when the downspout is plugged and the gutter is running over.

I found four tennis balls in the yard left behind by Roxie, the neighborhood dog, who cruises the neighborhood looking for a "thrower" so that she can be a "retriever." I am convinced that she monitors the neighborhood for the sound of a lawnmower or a snowblower, in addition to simply being on the lookout for someone performing the silent version of these tasks. (She must be into March Madness, because she made no appearance this afternoon.) Roxie always brings her own ball or stick or quickly scarfs up something that will do. At times, her choices are clearly inadequate. On those occasions, I find a wood scrap that works. Now, I have four tennis balls with the winter grim washed off ready to go. I can't figure out how Roxie decides whether to leave the ball or stick behind or to take them with her, when I call it quits and she heads on down the street. There are times, when I have outlasted her, but those have been few. Yes, the city does have a leash law. Am I exposing myself to a charge of contributing to the delinquency of a dog by my participation in this behavior? If I should make the "News of the Weird," when the local "Court News" reports on my day in court as I defend myself in the face of such charges, I will report on the event in this blog. Do you think I will get house arrest to prevent me from going outside to play with Roxie should she be cruising the neighborhood for a partner?

As on most days, rumination results in more questions than answers.

I recently finished reading Walter Isaacson's biography of Benjamin Franklin. Once again I was made aware of how far different the historical facts can be from the popular contemporary self-serving narratives that are put forward by those claiming some sort of historical mantle for their particular stances. In my estimation, a good biography must provide sufficient historical context so that the life being recounted can be reasonably understood as either a product of his/her time, or as a visionary ahead of his/her time, or a mix of both.

Ben Franklin never married. At age 24, he entered into a lifelong relationship with Deborah Read which lasted until her death some 40 years later. She bore him two children, only one of whom survived to adulthood. She also cared for Franklin's illegitimate son from another relationship, who was born shortly before they began to live together. The author speculated that the reason for not marrying was to avoid a possible charge of bigamy on Ms. Read's part. She had been married previously; her husband abandoned her. If she would have married Franklin only to have her husband return, she would have exposed herself to a charge of bigamy, which would potentially have had serious legal consequences--lashes and imprisonment. A curious distinction was therefore made, which was met with apparent acceptance or at least tolerance by the community and the couple's business and political associates.

Most folks will acknowledge that many of the actors in 18th century US history were Deists in addition to Christians representing a variety of denominations. Deists can hardly be considered Christians, if belief in the divinity of Christ is an essential criteria for being identified as Christian. So if Deists played such a central role in this country's formation, does not the claim to the title of a Christian nation ring false? Someone suggested that a minister be retained to give an invocation or prayer at the start of each session of the Continental Congress. The majority in attendance rejected the idea feeling that it might give the wrong message to the larger public or that it held little promise that it would improve the caliber of the discourse or move forward the business at hand.

By the way, Franklin's illegitimate son became the governor of New Jersey prior to the Revolutionary War, and the older of his two illegitimate grandsons had a career as a Philadelphia printer and publisher prior to his untimely death in his late 20's.

I suspect that if we read more history and were genuinely open to its content, we would be much more tolerant of our contemporaries.

Despite several days of musings and a very deliberate effort to make sense of the whatever, yesterday's post in the reread presents evidence of the need for either some additional sleep-on-it time or a talented copy editor. I tried to make a distinction where there appears to be no basis for such a distinction in the original. That leaves me with "all is pretty much the same thing"--dreams, promises, lies, and shards of broken dreams. Where does that leave me? I am left with the realization that what at any given time seems like "the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth" may be little more than today's overwhelmingly cloudy intellectual and emotional state of my internal affairs.

What time is it? Time to put one foot in front of the other. Repeat. Repeat as needed.

Retirement is a lot like moving. One can find himself going through a collection of things, which simply accumulated over a period of time and, which reflected little or no conscious decision to be preserved. I found that I collected a bunch of stuff--newspaper articles (In today's world, these were often printed copies of articles from newspapers or journals read on-line, rather than clippings as in the old days.), feeble attempts to organize my thoughts on some pertinent topic of the day by putting them on paper, and handwritten musings, which must have struck me as meaningful at the time. In recent days, I was going through stuff that had been boxed up for the move from the office to home. My intent was to throw out the unwanted and to repack the remaining and thereby arrive at a place with less volume and a more tidy packaging of that which remained.

I found the following written on a post-it note.

DREAMS ARE SIMPLY PROMISES MADE TO ONESELF. 

I DIDN'T KNOW THIS, WHEN I WAS IN MY 20'S.

Connected in some way were these words also on the same note:

AT MY AGE--SOMETIMES--ALL I HAVE TO LIVE ON

SEEMS TO BE LIES

AND THAT BEATS THE HELL OUT OF THE SHARDS OF

DREAMS AND PROMISES.

In the several days since finding and rereading these words, I find myself often reflecting on then trying to recall where I may have been when they came to mind and seemed so pertinent. The note is dated May 5, 2011; the date does not provide any helpful hint.  In my reflection, I often find my thoughts travelling on a route, which becomes increasingly melancholy. I suspect it is a condition that is associated with age and an activity, which can be described as musing.  

If dreams are promises made to oneself, then each of us is responsible for making those dreams/promises come true. If life has taught me anything, it is that the really good stuff doesn't just happen. Where do the lies comes from? From broken dreams/false promises? These could be those instances where I didn't make the necessary effort to see the dream through to fruition, or where I made promises with little intent to follow through, or where I fully expected someone else to do the hard work of making my dreams come true or of keeping my promises.

What are the respective roles for dreams and promises in the seventh decade of life and beyond? Maybe I need to travel further down that melancholy road and trust that the path will open up into a certain brightness.

We met with the tax preparer this afternoon to sign the necessary form and to write the check for the cost of the man's services so that our income taxes can be filed electronically. As usual the standard deduction works for us. I guess that means we are living below our means or that our means are low. If that is the case, why does the hard copy of our tax return (federal and state) total 41 pages? For me, that is reason enough to pay someone to do this job for me. My primary reason is peace of mind. Still it is only one tenth the length of Mitt Romney's tax return. My income does not have the same 1:10 ratio when compared to Mr. Romney's. Do you think that if he were to become president, he would make that happen. I probably ought to stifle my cynicism. I could afford a couple of  '57 Cadillacs for my wife to drive. There would be little advantage to leaving one at our second home, because someone else still owns the place. She could park one on one side of the street and the other on the opposite side of the street. Her choice of car in a given situation would depend upon which direction she intended to go upon leaving the house. Should these cars be the same, contrasting, or complimentary colors? What about vanity license plates? There is also the multiple car discount to be considered when pricing insurance. The entire matter may add another 10 pages to my next tax return.

The Louise Erdrich readers out there will, in my opinion, appreciate Susan Power. I recently finished her first book, The Grass Dancer, which I found at a local resale shop. Other than a slight tear in the jacket, there was little or no evidence to indicate that it had even been read by its previous owner and donor. Or maybe it had been and then carefully handled. The best hand-me-downs show little or no evidence of a previous owner/user and prompt an observation and comment such as: "I know someone, who has that same book or a shirt just like that."

I received a response to my email to the author Mary Rose O'Reilley. (Cf. entry of January 12th) It was a light hearted response, which I am interpreting as a sign that Ms O'Reilley is not interested in any further discussion of the point that I raised in my original email.

Curious to note. Susan Power is on the faculty of Hamline University in St. Paul. Ms. O'Reilley is on the faculty of St. Thomas University also in St. Paul. Ms Erdrich resides in Minneapolis and co-owns a bookstore, Birchbark Books, and a publishing company. The latter's mission is to publish works in Ojibwe.  Maybe all this says is that there are great regional and contemporary authors out there. One only has to snoop around, keep one's eyes open, and be willing to read something by an author unknown to himself or herself.

What is my next read? The Design of Everyday Things, by Donald Norman. My son recommended this one.

Since my most recent post was made on the day after I turned 66--some 2 and 1/2 weeks ago, folks may be thinking this guy really did retire; nowadays he ain't doin' nothin'. I doubt that I am too busy to keep blog entries current; it is just that I am too easily distracted.

One new year's/retirement resolution has seen progress; I have written a letter to each of my three grandsons during the past two weeks. The presumptuous goal there is to put something down on paper that a two-year-old can grow into and will continue to say something about who this bald-headed, bib overalls wearing, old guy is or was. (One can easily start thinking of oneself in the past tense after meeting with a financial advisor, who adds life expectancy into the retirement financial planning formula.)

Since this is Valentine's Day, I suppose I should say something about the occasion. I find myself thinking of grade school and how this day so often held such high tension. There was task of preparing the cards that one was to exchange with classmates. Finding that special card in the package for that special classmate, after your brother and sisters had picked them all over, was an insurmountable task. Somehow you were convinced that your future depended upon this choice, even though past experience showed you that the events of the day would slip into ancient history within 24 hours and that you would be the only one--so it seemed--with any memory of the day. Christmas gift exchanges were another such high stakes event--or so it seemed at the time. Come to think of it; if these events weren't all that important why do I find myself thinking of them some 50+ years later? I wonder what impact they might have had on me down through the years and on Valentine's Day 2012.

I have had good intentions to make more regular entries in this blog. A nasty head cold has kicked me to the side of the road this past week so I have not been able to move that intention down the road. The past couple of mornings seemed to hold some promise that my condition was on the upswing, but as each day progressed, any promise got lost in aches and pains, runny nose, and cough. I figure this can't go on forever, so maybe today's promise will be actualized.

Yesterday was my 66th birthday. It passed into history with the minimum of fanfare. I spent some time cleaning the previous night's snowfall off the driveway and deck. A neighbor and good friend stopped in for morning coffee and shared the birthday coffee cake that I had made in anticipation of his visit. UPS delivered my birthday present mid-day. Great timing! An afternoon nap prepared me to stay up late watching the president's state of the union speech and its sequelae. Supper's birthday dessert was angel food cake served with blueberry sauce.

With modest, but regular, snowfalls coupled with more seasonal temperatures over the past week, the landscape has taken on the appearance of winter--a very welcomed attire.

One change I am trying to make now that I am retired is to do things more deliberately and thoughtfully. One example is to keep the dictionary at hand while I read. Rather than make some guesstimate of a meaning from context or be presumptuous that I know the meaning, I will take the time to look up a word, that is new to me or being used in a novel fashion. What this practice has taught me is that my palette of colorful speech terms is really quite limited. The second lesson is that the 1988 edition of Webster's New World Dictionary also has its limitations. This is where internet searches come into play and the online Dictionary of American Slang.

So. You ask, "what are you reading that juxtaposes the terms slang, colorful speech, and the expansion of one's vocabulary?" Please note. I am not referring to expressive speech, that is, vocabulary that I intend to incorporate into my regular conversations. I am referring to receptive speech, so that I can understand the words spoken and written by others. One might also presume that a brief stint in the Army 40 years ago would have been adequate lifelong preparation for all the colorful speech that one would ever need.

Let's return to the question: what am I reading? The answer. Poetry. Rob Ganson, a local poet, has published third collection titled: A Storm of Horses. The two earlier works are titled: Float like a Butterfly, Sing like a Tree and Follow the Clear River Down. Let me just say, this ain't your mother's poetry, unless your mother is a 60's radical updated to the new millennium.

Incidentally, guesstimate is in the dictionary and the noun form is guesstimate and not the more commonly heard guesstimation. That is, it is in the 1988 edition of Webster's New World Dictionary. I may check online later now that I have the time to be more deliberative and thoughtful. Please note. I did not claim to be spending the additional available time in only productive or worthwhile activities.

Apparently, I think dictionaries are cool. How many grandpas gift their six-year-old grandson with a dictionary as a Christmas present? I do. I did. That is a subject for a later post, along with the thoughts on being married to a grandma, who tolerates such behavior.

A second incidentally, guesstimate is in spell check; guesstimation is not. How cool is that?

I suspect a little twisted humor is always in order--be it a little humor or a little twisted.

Recently, I have found myself pondering the question: is re-tire what one does when the wheels have come off or are about to come off?

Hopefully, I have re-tired in a timely manner and have avoided both recent and impending catastrophes.

This morning, it would appear that winter is finally making its move and getting a hold on the landscape. The temperature dropped late yesterday afternoon so that the rain could turn to snow. This morning found us with an inch or so of new snow. I swept the deck and shovelled the driveway. It is now snowing again. It is difficult to estimate how much might accumulate. Snow is in the forecast for the next three days. A break in the snow is forecast for Sunday, with snow reportedly to return on Monday.

I recently finished reading Mary Rose O'Reilley book The Barn at the End of the World. I was browsing the religion section of the local library, because a few months I found Peter Ellis' book The Druids to be a good read. It was the subtitle of O'Reilley's book that caught my eye An Apprenticeship of a Quaker, Buddhist Shepherd. The author grew up in the Twin Cities; attended St. Catherine's and the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee before returning to teach English at St. Thomas for 28 years. I could identify with the author's lifelong journey of self-discovery, which seemed to take her down, if not the backroads of the contemporary American experience, then certainly off on the shoulder and up against the fenceline that parallels the main road.

I found the author's email address at St. Thomas and sent her a note. I will now wait and see, if she responds. I found myself thinking how do I craft such an email expressing my gratitude for the author's work without coming across as a stalker. If I receive a response, I will know; if there is no response, I won't know.

Today I had the opportunity to work on my axe skills, as well as chainsaw skills.

An elderly acquaintance asked me to clear some undergrowth and the usual woodland plants (read: brush) whose life's work is to recapture any cleared space (read: field or lawn). Several weeks ago, I did some of this work for this same individual. At that time, she said that she would have me back in the spring to do more. Apparently, I did a good enough job so that spring was too long to wait. Or maybe the yard had the untidy look of a job half done. This time out there were several inches of snow to deal with. The temperature was also cold enough that fingers hurt (read: HURT) in wet gloves. Cutting the growth at ground level was much too hard on the chainsaw, so I used an axe on all but the largest stuff. In retrospect I wish that I had put both an old bar, as well as an old chain, on the saw before I started and not only just an old chain. I did learn of the advantage in wearing chainsaw chaps is that one can work on one's knees and not get wet through.

What I did was "a little brushing" to use the vernacular. Brushing is like picking rock; both are tasks that are never done. Brush regenerates and propagates; rocks move with the freeze and thaw cycle and tillage. Could it be that both are the results of the efforts of woodland sprites to maintain balance? Someone could make the case that there is not enough wild places, wilderness, or wild land; as a result, there is a system built-in to self-correct our misguided and ill-conceived efforts. As I worked, I wondered if the results of my efforts were really beneficial in the greater scheme of things--a scheme to which I am not all that privy. Despite different purposes, both farmers and suburbanites work to thwart the encroachment of the advance guards of the woody plant world.

I appreciated the opportunity to practice the skills involved, to experience the pain of working outside this time of the year (Tonight, I have a cracked thumb as a continued reminder.), and to think about the greater scheme of things, while on my knees in cold temperatures and bright sunlight. I trust it is okay for all of us to go about our human activity with a healthy dose of skepticism--I don't know everything about what I am doing. It may even be better than "okay;" it may even be the preferred way to proceed. Such an attitude will hopefully keep me open to self-correct my efforts based on the evidence from new information or insight. I can't always rely on woodland sprites.

There was only an inch or so of additional snowfall overnight, so the early morning chore of clearing snow consisted of sweeping the deck and stairs and passing the snow scrapper over the driveway. I then put on an extra layer and took a walk downtown to the marina, where I took a few minutes to look out over a blue gray lake. The wind had enough bite in it that standing didn't feel like the thing to do. I also am not in a position to argue with the wind.

As I walked through the marina parking lot I passed through numerous sailboats asleep in their cradles wrapped in white or blue shrinkwrap or tarps, I imagined that I was walking along a much more primitive lakeshore guarded by stately cedars and regal hemlocks.  As with any conifer forest, little snow makes it to the forest floor.  Here and there, I dodged a rudder, not unlike a lowhanging branch.  A choir of overhead riggings were singing in the wind--a wind from which I was protected by hulls huddled together, not unlike muscular unbranched trucks. Unsecured corners of tarp applauded--I am not sure--rigging songs or my passing.

The slips in the marina were empty; their summer occupants in cradles. There were three commericial fishing tugs tied up at the City Dock. They don't take the winter off, at least not until the lake ices over and holds them fast. Today they appeared to be waiting for their captains to go out to lift nets.  Maybe today is an off day; the nets are not to be lifted until tomorrow.  I don't know. Two out of three tugs were ready. How do I know? They had warning fires. Fishing tugs typically have two smoke stacks or chimneys--one for the diesel engine and the other for a stove.  Diesel fuel is temperature sensitive; in cold weather, a warming fire is necessary once the engine is shut down for the day, if one wants to head out again tomorrow.

Sailboats are summer barks; fishing tugs ply ice-free waters--even then their captains push the limit on how much ice is too much in which to operate.  Fishermen? They are a resilient bunch; they leave the tug behind, walk the ice, and set their nets beneath it.

I can welcome fishing tugs and hardy captains into my fantasy of a primitive lakeshore more than I can comfort those summer barks.

New Year Greetings and Best Wishes for the Coming Year!

 May all of our worthwhile efforts bear fruit.

We received 4 inches of new snow last night--the first significant snowfall of the winter.  There is also some bluster in the wind, so it feels appropriate for the season.

Bundle Up!