Raise your rhetorical hand if, once again, on December 31st, you were one of those people that has made that ridiculous vow to lose 20 pounds or more. Has anyone else out there, like me, had a rough couple of weeks filled with cheating, self doubt and self condemnation? Are you feeling guilty knowing you’ve used up your total points for the day and it’s only 0830 in the morning? Have you told yourself, at least once, that tomorrow I’ll be good….I’ll definitely start that diet for real…on Monday?

I remember my first diet, I think I was 12 years old and there has been a whole laundry list of them since then: starvation, water, Adkins, South Beach, tuna fish and diet mountain dew, weight watchers, curves, basic training, not to mention the several purchases of exercise equipment/laundry dryers that have found their way back out of my house and into happier homes where their owner pays closer attention to them. You name it, I’ve tried it. Out of all of them; the only one that worked, really worked, was being constantly reminded that I would lose my job and be asked to leave the military with a dishonorable discharge. For being too fat!!! Can you imagine the shame? That is the extent or extreme motivation required for me to actually follow through with this New Year’s resolution!

I’m finally realizing, as I go through this same scenario over and over and over again, that I don’t see my dieting as a commitment but rather as a sort of “hobby”. Therein lies the problem quite possibly. Not something I do every day or even very often at all, and not something that I take so much pleasure in that I can’t live without it. However it is something that I’ve appreciated in the past. I’ve invested so much money, time, and effort toward this hobby, over the years, so it’s not something that I can just drop completely. I have to admit that I have enjoyed the outcome of my efforts at least twice, though only for short periods of time. I pick it up again every now and then, relearn all of the steps, work with it for awhile, leave it laying out in the living room for a few weeks with the intention of taking a stab at it a little every day, ignore it for days at a time and, eventually, I just put it all back in the closet until I get the urge to begin again….like that quilt I’ve been stitching away at for the past 5 years.

I have to say, I recently quit a nationally popular weight program after three grueling years…week after week… facing that woman with that horrifying scale and paying her $12 to chastise me about my inadequacies in a subtle effort to somehow motivate me! My excuses each week were starting to sound repetitive and so much less creative than I am capable of….my heart just wasn’t in it. A new friend of mine, I’ll call her Helen, told me that at her last weigh in…and a HUGE gain of two tenths of a pound showed up on the tiny window of one of the “scales-from-hell in her life…her counselor asked her if she was writing everything down and she told her; “Well, no…you wouldn’t want me to get writer’s cramp would you…it’s the holiday season?” I got a chuckle from that and I’ve put that little gem away to be used later, because I’m sure I’ll join up again and subject myself to that superior, judgmental gaze, putting my wares on display at some public weigh-in, somewhere in my future. That particular comment will be killer!

Don’t get me wrong…those poor folks are simply doing their job. Of course you have to have reached and maintained your goal weight to be able to obtain their career positions so I’m sure their perspective is completely opposite of say…mine. Think of the uphill battle though, it’s hard enough to lose your own weight…but to measure your success and be responsible for someone else’s weight? I would feel a bit more empathetic if I believed that the diet industry actually measured their success by their clients’ weight loss. Yes… “ouch!”

As for my own personal journey; I’d love to be able to say genetics has had something to do with it but unfortunately I have two skinny sisters so that excuse works only up until they come into the picture. I’d like to say it’s because I’m busy but I see so many other people who have so much more on their plate than I, and they are thin and healthy. I’d like to blame America…why not? Tempting me with all of that fantastic junk food at every turn. We’ve managed to foster a system whereby the stuff that’s fattening and salty and full of sugar is cheaper and you don’t even have to haul your carcass out of the car to get to it…what a deal?!?! Over the past few years I’ve been blaming Mexico as well, partly because I tote myself as an equal opportunity type gal, but also, having been exposed to the cuisine at work, first Texas then Schuyler; I have found that I absolutely love spicy, hot, cheesy enchiladas, pupusas, quesadillas, and nachos! Since I mentioned work: having discounted access to the best quality red meat of any variety, hasn’t helped curb my carnal desire for a perfectly grilled, medium-rare, end cut either. Let’s not forget the cuisine of my mother land. I could never pass on roast pork and duck, sour kraut with caraway, stick-to-the-roof-of-your-mouth, old-fashioned dumplings, horn rolls, and don’t forget the kolaches.

So there you have it. Gluttony personified, that’s me. Yet, annually, I sit here and wonder why these darn diets never work for me. It’s my view that a lot of us do. We tend to experience and enjoy life by tasting it, and then we suffer the consequences. We hear it all the time: “Everything in moderation” . I guess that’s the simple key. In addition to my annual self evaluation of my reckless food intake over the past couple of months, I had a surprise visit from a friend of mine. Someone who has known me for a couple of decades and even he asked me if I was “at least walking”. I’ll take that as a hint that I may be crossing over the line of “fat and happy” on into “you’d-better-do-something-quick-or-you-soon-won’t-fit-through-the-door”. In response to his inquiry, I’ve signed up for, yet another, nutrition/diet type seminar….who knows, maybe this will be the one! I hope they don’t make me give it all up….should I be forced to imagine a life without poppyseed kolaches… seriously folks, what would be the point?

Good luck with your resolutions, whatever they may be and if you ever find yourself in need of a walking partner, give me a call. Until then…keep your chin up; it gives you an air of confidence and it also makes one of those extra chins magically disappear.

I’d like to share a few things that I have found humorous or noteworthy during my holiday season thus far. I invite you to laugh along with me.

This past weekend, the contractor who has been working on a tiny construction project at my house…well, it seemed to be tiny in the beginning, came over in the afternoon around 2pm to update me on a few things because we don’t see one another much during the week. Unfortunately, my daughter and I were still in our pajamas.

Initially, one would imagine that I had been lounging around my place in my fuzzy slippers, partaking of the plate of Oreo/cream cheese/almond bark Christmas cookies that a neighbor brought over and watching TV, too lazy to even dress for the day. That was not the case, I assure you. Did you ever have one of those mornings where you start cleaning something…not just cleaning…but CLEANING!? Especially now, before all of the relatives and other company is expected to come over, enjoy some holiday cheer and at the same time, inspect your housekeeping skills. We all do it, be honest. Anyway, it was one of those days where one feels compelled to remove everything out from under the beds and dressers, shove it all over, vacuum and sweep and dust, then proceed to organizing the closet that hasn’t been touched in years, then on to the cupboard under the sink and so on. Well, I was having that kind of Sunday and I just kept on going without stopping to change clothes because, as we all know, I would have lost my momentum. I ended up in the kitchen with my daughter, baking several different types of cookies, simultaneously, when the doorbell rang rather unexpectedly. My first and last-born: Justice, runs and opens the door with not so much as a “Who is it?”, nor a “Just a minute…” Everyone is welcome to walk right in at the Simanek’s house as far as Justice is concerned. Oddly, Gene didn’t appear shocked as I came out of the kitchen in my lounge wear sprinkled generously with flour from the baking which went nicely with the dry wall dust covering my shins from the old-fashioned floor washing that took place before the baking extravaganza began. We had a “normal “ conversation and then for some reason, after he left, I went upstairs and changed into my jeans and a regular-sized t-shirt, and I even combed my hair. I’m not sure why, by that time I could have just continued as I was. As you would guess, I lost that original drive and the pepper nut dough sits in the fridge, awaiting the cookie sheets and the oven, to this day.

Then on Monday night, I was innocently on my way to our annual Legion Christmas Party, I went to step down onto the first stair of my deck and I slipped on a small patch of ice. I must have hit my gluteus maximus as my foot went out from under me because I had to have bounced to land the way I did. If you’ve seen my derrière, it wouldn’t require much stretch of the imagination to visualize the whole scenario happening. Somehow, I ended up face down, five steps later, on my sidewalk with my legs twisted under the last stair. I actually yelled: “Son of a Nutcracker!” (We’ve been watching a lot of “Elf” these past few weeks.)

It was that kind of fall where you lay there, motionless after the cascade of motion ceases. I was static there in a heap for a few minutes, taking a head-to-toe inventory to make sure nothing felt broken before I attempted to rise up to a standing position and give the legs another go. I was lucky; I came out of it with just a large bruise over my right shin, a scratch to my right forearm, and another large bruise on my springy, elastic, bouncy….well….”pride”….we’ll call it. I’ve talked to so many people in the last couple of weeks with broken bones and dislocated rotator cuffs resulting from their spontaneous adventures on ice, so I’d say I was pretty fortunate. Again, serendipity was on my side in that Carol Wilson’s Armadillo Punch at the Legion Party was just what the doctor would have ordered and I was soon feeling no pain. Thank you Carol! Seriously everyone, please be extra careful out there.

Last thing, I promise. My work has required me to drive to our plant in Nebraska City once a week or so for the last month to help out and I was unsure about it when they first asked me to do it…okay, I’ll be honest, I was kind of whining about it. It’s my view that most of us can be that way when someone forces us out of our comfort zone and routine, plus with the weather being what it is here in Nebraska, I had my concerns.

I say it over and over again, but I have to be the most fortuitous person I know. I’ve been paying closer attention to the weather, with it being different every day; I try to plan my week with this four hours of driving across Nebraska highways smack in the middle of it. There were many times last week, I wondered if I was even going to venture an attempt. Somehow every time I have had to take that long drive, the sky opens up, the sun comes out in full force and the day is clear, crisp and beautiful. Thursday was extra amazing, I don’t know how else to describe it! The unending, rolling hills on the drive south were seamlessly covered with this brilliantly white, perfectly untouched, glimmering immaculate snow. Every once in a while I would see a heard of Angus grazing in the stalks, flawlessly spaced, just begging to strike a pose for a wintery, Christmas-card-like shot against the knoll behind them. The result of the ice storms lingered longer south of Lincoln and every blade of grass, every tiny branch of every tree, every old, crooked fence post and it’s joining lines of barbed wire were laced with a lovely, clear, glass-like coating. The morning sun added to their magical sparkle and back lit the glistening trees with such drama I don’t even remember driving. I was there before I knew it, singing along to the Christmas carols on the radio with shameless abandon the entire way. Later in the afternoon, things warmed up nicely to make it a truly pleasant December day. Who on this earth can say they have such luck to be anonymously presented with such a gift on a routine, mundane drive to work? I almost stopped the car on the side of Highway 2 to count my blessings. With presents like that, who needs Gordmans or Sears?

Have a Happy Holiday everyone and don’t forget to laugh at yourselves every now and then.

Be safe, be warm, be together and enjoy the season!

I want to start this month by informing you that I grew up in a house divided.

When it comes to the level of “fan”atism toward the Cornhuskers that is. I don’t intend to venture over into Nathan’s territory by any means but this topic was suggested to me by one of the biggest Cornhusker fans I know and I thought it might be something worth exploring from the point of view of someone with only a passive interest in sports. Sorry Nathan, but it’s true.

I say divided because, in our house you were either apprehensively sitting on the edge of the sofa and screaming at the coach’s ridiculously wrong choices, voiced in the same tone and with the same tenacity as following a touchdown, massive yardage gain, or interception on a typical Husker Saturday. Or you were carrying on a completely off-topic conversation in the background trying to ignore the earsplitting, chaotic, fervor of team spirit going on in the living room. There was never any middle ground. Some of us were crazy-excited about football and some of us could have cared less.

Being part of the group that seemingly, could care less, I have to admit that there is something about that Cornhusker spirit or something about us as a people that connects us to the rest of the world by that one identifier. Believe it or not, when I was in Italy and I told Italians which state of the union I was from, they would smile and try to form the word “Cornhusker” in way of a knowing response. There really is no way to deny it, we are what we are. When you’re vacationing and tell people where you are from; they most likely will remember someone else they have met from Nebraska and will ask you if you know them. I love it when I’m in a busy airport like La Guardia and I can always find a red sweatshirt in and amongst all of those people. They will probably be wearing shorts in the winter time….but still…..I think of them as family and might go up to them and say hello, completely confident that they will respond in kind.

Recently, as I understand it, there has been some question as to whether or not our football “team” is performing to the best of their abilities. Whether or not they are “representing” as it were. In my view, it’s most important during these times that we Cornhuskers show our true colors. Though it’s natural to “gently encourage” by constantly debating football issues in the break room at work, in the trucks while waiting at the grain elevator, or by screaming our opinion directly into the car radio on game days in order to send our message to the gods over at UNL as to what their next move should be…in our humble opinions. Our true colors are more than scarlet and cream, there is more to the heart of a true Cornhusker than just football.

Being a Cornhusker means doing the right thing even when it isn’t popular, treating everyone like they are your next door neighbor, keeping your idea of “big city” in perspective, accommodating the speed of the occasional tractor with patience, bragging about the accomplishments of our children to anyone who will listen, living in Omaha and having it imagined as “rural” by our “out-of-state” friends, working hard for a living, and let’s not forget: supporting the home team…no matter what that team might be.

So, to that fan who is so dear to my heart and suggested I go on this little venture, I say thank you. Without your Cornhusker spirit in our house growing up, I wouldn’t have realized how “representing” our Nebraska in a positive light to the the rest of the world has so much to do with that happy-go-lucky Herbie Husker image that people can’t help but smile when they see him or when they think of one of us.

My daughter and I had the opportunity of a lifetime, in my opinion, to go flying one day with our extremely generous friend: Ray Stranik. As we were coming close to the end of our flight, Justice pulled my headset away from my ear to shout that poignant statement to me. These rare occasions of clarity take me off guard as I am used to rambling editorials surrounding who blew milk out of their nose during lunch at school that day or which boy pushed the teacher just a tad bit too far and got himself in a world of trouble. She’s here to remind me that the simple thoughts of a child can be the most relevant and should be regarded as such, listened to in spite of everything else we have on our minds, and tucked away in the recesses of our minds to be brought out later, during those times when we aren’t necessarily seeing them in such a favorable light.

The idea of the flight came about because I wanted to write something surrounding harvest, I thought to see the combines in action from above might inspire me and possibly generate an approach I had not previously considered. Plus, I love to fly, especially small aircraft where there is seemingly so little between you and the surrounding atmosphere. The Air Force provided me with several opportunities for incentive flights and I grew to love everything about it. The initial heaviness then the shift to weightlessness as you take off, the added perk of the wind in my face from the open window of Ray’s 1946 Piper, and the jump and jerk when there’s a tiny bit of turbulence. I also must mention that the rare glimpse of our beautiful Morse Bluff from above took my breath away even more so than seeing the Mediterranean sea from those heights when I was stationed in Italy and got to go up in an F-15…straight up. I am addicted to that feeling of hope and panic just before landing, be it on an official landing strip or in a hayfield with the perfectly parallel harrows next to the pilot’s farm, guiding us in safely. It’s all heaven to me and the commercial flights are exciting but I feel too safe in those big planes, it’s just not enough to summon that adrenaline the way a smaller plane can.

In spite of all of this emotional buoyancy bubbling up within me beginning days before pre-flight, I attempted to stay mentally on track. Apparently there was some Nebraska game just finishing or it was too early in the season; we only saw a couple of fields with any activity, though I did get an excellent shot of a family baling hay. I say family because I didn’t actually see the folks but the machinery was moving with such synergy, they had to be blood relatives, making their living together, doing what they love. I got all of that from 400 feet above ground…..it’s a gift.

In my view, farming is something that has to come from within. In order to face that gambler’s lifestyle every day of your life, to crave that dependency on nature which is mostly out of your control, you have to love it or it just can’t work. I see farming as reckless, exciting, wild because of it’s unpredictable nature, and expensive. On the other hand, I’ve also noticed that farmers are some of the most conservative people I’ve ever met. It’s this dichotomy that has me perplexed and curious, so much so, that I daily suppress the desire to quit my job and sell my soul for my own “quilt square”. I despise my windowless, desk bound, paycheck-every-two-weeks-safe job that is paying for my house, supplying my family with affordable health insurance, and feeding us. I crave the open air, the dependency on the news supplied by the weather station, the gratification of being able to drive by and actually see what hours of labor can produce, and the excitement of living on the financial edge.

There’s a farmyard along the highway on my way to work and now and then they have an old piece of equipment for sale which sends my mind off on a tangent, dreaming of the possibilities. A few years ago they were selling an old, bright orange, heavy-duty farm truck with the wooden, slatted, sides built up on the bed…oh what I could do with a truck like that! Then, just a couple of months ago they rolled an old International 1420 combine to the edge of the highway and placed a “For Sale” sign in front of it. I got to thinking; “If I had that, all I would need is a couple hundred acres and a tractor and maybe a planter!”

Trust me, I’m not an idiot, just a dreamer and I’ve been accused of romanticizing things… a little. I know full well, that it takes so much more than that and most importantly: a banker with an equal amount of farming in his heart. Without the desire and array of generations of farmers, our small towns wouldn’t exist and all of the supporting jobs and careers would vanish, including my own.

We saw more than just farms and farmers from the air. I saw a patchwork of neighbors working together to support one another and to continue our pleasant way of life. We saw so many new lakeside developments along the river, we saw countless groups of contractors and builders on top of and within the framed-out skeletons of new homes, we saw lush golf courses, multiple industrial parks, and the train that ties us to the rest of the world. We saw full parking lots at familiar bars as well as next to churches in every small town from Ashland to North Bend where we have all met to share each other’s company at one time or another. We saw that, in spite of all of the growth and overflow from the bigger cities, we still have so much green, so many trees, and so much water in our rivers and lakes. We saw one of our neighbors warmly waving up to us the minute he recognized us in the air.

From above, my daughter and I were afforded the rare and cherished chance to be able to appreciate the idea that it takes all kinds, not just the farmer, to support the farms all around us. The farmer may be out there in the field, seemingly alone on many occasions, but that farm is only one of the interesting patches connected to the rest on our colorful, tale-telling quilt displaying the diversity that makes us all a part of our beautiful Nebraska.

<!– @page { size: 8.5in 11in; margin: 0.79in } P { margin-bottom: 0.08inI don’t think it’s a big secret that I love to get out and enjoy a fabulous polka experience as often as I can. Just something about that accordion music that puts a smile on my face and causes an irresistible urge within in me to skip and slide and bounce while moving backwards…what more could one ask for in life?

I went to one of the local bars-turned-dance-hall-for-the-evening recently, to take in one of my favorite bands. A few of my friends happen to have been sitting in and playing so all the more reason to listen and enjoy. I’ve found, as I’ve gotten to know a some polka band members, that each and every one of them has the habit of not taking themselves too seriously and a sense of humor is an absolute must. I’d say my friends in the band fit that bill to a tee and just watching them sing and play was entertainment worth the cover charge for me.

I’ve found that it takes about an hour at one of these smaller venues, for folks to eat their meals and have a couple of sips before they stand up and begin to pair off and hit the floor. A favorite past time of mine has been to watch them, once they do. I’ve always been envious of those friends and couples that could hop in there and make it all look so easy. I think about how some of them have been dancing with one another for 40 or 50 or even 60 years. The gentleman’s hand in that familiar place on his wife’s back, above her waist, just below her shoulder blades. Their right and left hands clasped in the same gentle way as they have for decades, the woman’s left hand reaching up to her husband’s right shoulder and both looking off to the side without a need to communicate with their eyes nor voice. The music begins and they start off on the correct foot every time and dive seamlessly, perfectly into their dance, with no more effort than they put forth to breathe. Some have stoic faces with no expression; not matching their feet that are telling a whole different, happy-go-lucky story. Some always dance cheek to cheek and glide along together around the dance floor as one unit. There are women dancing together: maybe best friends, maybe mother and daughter, and that’s okay too because finding a man willing to trade the farming discussion at the table for a dance, isn’t always easy and should never prevent a girl from doing what she came their to do. Some, my favorite to watch, kick up their heels and laugh and twirl and chat through the entire song, unaware that the rest of us exist.

Back in the Spring I put an invitation out to some of my close friends to join me at Starlight for some dancing. I had an ulterior motive….I was desperate for someone to take the time and patience to teach me how to elevate my current self esteem on the dance floor so I can convert this observation-type past time to one of participation and put an end to my wallflower days for good. I wasn’t able to convince too many of my friends to join me but my Uncle Leonard, Aunt Kathy, brother Jason, and sister-in-law Juanita took on the challenge of “Educating Robin” on the ebb and flow of the fine art of the polka dance and others. My friend Jill was also there for moral support and some laughs, only a few of which were at my expense. Leonard and I spent a few hours out there on the floor and I learned so much more than how to polka. Here’s some of his lessons that can definitely be applied on a grander scale:

Lesson #1: Never look at your feet. Of course, that’s obvious right? Yeah, yeah, it’s a bad habit; Mr. Watson taught most of us that one in Jr. High…remember? Seriously, if you are always looking down, trying to anticipate your next move, you might miss the surprises that are right under your nose and can take you in a more enjoyable, unplanned direction.

Lesson #2: Relax Robin; it’s supposed to be fun and no one is judging you. That’s a tough one for me, I tend to have performance anxiety and am generally wound a bit tight due to the day-to-day stresses that, for the most part, don’t really matter to anyone but me. As the lessons went on and the night progressed; I learned that Leonard was right, life is much more fun if you force yourself to relax and just let it happen. Did I say “life”? I meant “dancing”.

Lesson #3: If you screw up, don’t put too much emphasis on it, correct yourself and keep on moving. You are the only one who will have noticed most of the time. That’s all I’m going to say about that.

Lesson #4: Experience multiple partners….Ha! Okay, so I don’t recommend we all apply that one, literally “on a grander scale” but it made me giggle when he first told me that….how much more amusing life is due to the immaturity of my simple mind. The point is: there’s more than one way to skin a cat, or interpret a dance, or fix a car or whatever. If you only dance with one person; it limits your playing field as well as your ability to adapt. Every dancer brings to the floor, their own pace, stride, rhythm, and experience; it’s all there for your taking if you are willing to branch out and give them a try. I think it’s important to take it slow, learn a person’s rhythm, pay attention to how they think and gain a respect for it. You’ll find that this time spent makes it easier to understand where the other person is coming from and how they interpret “the dance”. That way, one is not overpowering the other and both can benefit.

Lesson #5: Never give up. The only way to learn is to practice and anyone can do it. This one, surprisingly, even applied to me. I never thought I could learn…but I did once I gave it a try.

Lesson #6: When you bump into someone….apologize.

Lesson #7: “Smile Robin; always smile.” I’ve gotten the most mileage from this one, and didn’t realize how often throughout my day, I had to tell myself to do it. It sure changes how people receive and perceive you. I love it when someone says to me: “What are you so happy about?” Even on a bad day.

Lesson #8: If you need a break, take one. You can always begin again where you left off and the music won’t stop playing if you sit one out.

Lesson #9: Be generous. Someone may suggest a step you’ve never tried before and you may risk looking uncoordinated or foolish; put yourself out there anyway. A “comfort zone” is for the complacent, unadventurous, and those that are finished with new experiences in life. Be generous and who knows what you may learn.

Lesson #10: Always, always, always be grateful and thankful to your band. They provided the canvas for your art, the rhythm for your heart, the joyful noise that moved your body and your feet for a few hours and they usually are doing it for little more than their love of the music. So they deserve a hand, an appreciative word, and a free beverage never hurts either.

I was moved to share this with everyone because I’m assuming we have all learned these lessons and can all relate to a few, if not all of them, to some degree. If you are one of the wallflowers that hasn’t; I encourage you to get out there and attend one of the local performances at one of our local establishments. You’re friends are all there; some you know and the ones you have yet to meet. We will all be glad to see you and look forward to sharing these lessons with someone new.

A good night’s sleep has escaped me lately folks. You wouild think with all of that time lying awake in bed I would have come up with something more appropriate to contribue to this year’s Annual Morse Bluff Eagle. Instead I’m sitting at my window, several nights lately, watching the beautiful rain come down, listening to the thunder, and admiring nature’s free-for-the-taking, light shows.

Rain blasting loudly through thunder-cloud-darkened nights! Rain coming down lightly for hours throughout a steamy, August day! Rain pouring down in sheets during afternoon thunderstorms! Rain sprinkling through, seemingly, without a cloud in the sky! I remember, as kids, we used to run out to the sidewalk in front of our house and we three blondies would perform our own rendition of the sacred, traditional rain dance. Our small fingers out-stretched at the ends of our uplifted arms, stomping our bare feet in the fine dust that normally coats everything on the farm in the late summer, imitating the American Indian ceremonies that we had been shown over and over again on the reel-reel movies during Social Studies classes at good, old District 14.

The shear joy we felt escalated as every precious, wet drop touched our skin and as we continued to sway and chant in the front yard, we each knew, deep down, what that rain really meant to Mom and Dad and all of the farmers that lived around us. When I see smiling, well-rested farmers during this time of year, I can’t help but think that it wouldn’t hurt to go outside and revel in it for at least a moment.

They are shutting down the pivots and turning off the wells early and there can’t be any better feeling than that right now with the heat and humidity reaching their highest points. The cost is the main thing but there is also the day after day maintenance of the the pumps and machinery, the high pitched annoying, constant, buzz of mosquitoes in your ears, the water in your boots and mud in other unmentionable places, the middle of the night monitoring, the foregoing of vacations, parties, and family gatherings for the care and upkeep of the life-sustaining, irrigation systems and the constant worry that in spite of their diligent efforts; the crop will succumb to the ever-oppressing heat and yields will decline because of it. No wonder the mood collectively lightens around here as with each passing day we add thirty hundredths, or an inch, or even three inches to the total rainfall for August 2007.

I was caught in it a few weeks ago as I had to get out of my car to help a friend with something. It was during one of those afternoon downpours when the sky suddenly darkens and there’s that thick, sweet smell of moisture as the barometer quickly plummets. The water-balloon-like drops began to descend and I was sure that, had I been able to measure them, they would have amounted to about a pint apiece. I got out and the two of us did what we had to do, taking just a few seconds scurrying around with our heads bowed as though that would have kept some part of us from becoming thoroughly drenched. We shouted our good byes over the deafening splashes and thurnder claps and I was about to grab the handle of my car door and jump in out of the squall when the urge to dance overcame me. As you know, that sort of urge takes over pretty often, but this was different. I did what anyone else would do; I raised my hands toward the generously, giving sky, spun around, kicked the water up in an arc; first with my right foot, then with my left and shouted a quick thank you to the heavens before retreating to my driver’s seat completely, deliciously, delightedly…..soaked to the skin and smiling.

Rain in August, in Nebraska….something for which we can all be truly thankful.

——–Morse Bluff Eagle, 14 August 2007