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

I am what I like to refer to as a “Patriotic Liberal”. Now I know, there’s a few of you out there who truly believe that when you look up oxymoron in the dictionary: “patriotic liberal” is the second synonym listed for the word…or at least it should be. But that’s okay, I can take it. This world takes all kinds and would be boring if we all thought alike. I usually steer away from political discussions, for obvious reasons, I’ve learned this lesson the hard way since I’ve moved back to Nebraska. The only reason I’m bringing it up is because something happened to me the other day that just stopped me in my shoes and I’ve been wrestling with my feelings about the occurrence ever since.

I was out and about, shopping on a weekend and there was quite a mixture of nationalities and age groups mingling around. I was simply minding my own business, window browsing and people watching as I tend to do; when one of the young “ladies” in the clique of teenagers near me threw out a hand/finger gesture and yelled something derogatory about America…in a language other than English. Coincidentally I’m able to translate some of the vernacular she was using…..at least enough to know the “cuss” words…and what she said was coming out loud and clear.

I found myself incensed. She and her friends were obviously not hurting for meals, they were wearing jeans that I could not afford at their age, and they were “hanging out” at the mall on a Saturday and having fun. It just made me wonder; what negative thing did America ever do to them? There is probably so much I don’t know going on behind her statement and it, most likely, isn’t politically correct to look at this situation the way I did initially….as I said; I’m wrestling with my feelings here.

To maintain my own inner balance and to keep the positive energy flowing I would like to share with you what America means to me and why this young woman’s vehement statement struck such emotion within me.

As a teenager, I never thought much about patriotism. I think I was like any other young kid and I took all that we had for granted much like my young friend I mentioned above. I found myself in basic training at the age of 19 because I needed the work and wanted something more from my life but I’m sure I didn’t join to “fight for my country” like the brave and courageous young folks do, who join up and “re-up” now or the veterans who fought before them. Toward the end of my training in lovely San Antonio, our TI took us out to a stretch of lawn which was special because there were consequences if one ever stepped on the grass. I remember the sun beginning to set, we were exhausted from our day, it was ridiculously hot for this Nebraska girl and I can still remember that feeling of torridity just rising off the concrete, thus the lawn was considerably cooler. To the west of us sat a B-1 Bomber; a truly gargantuan machine, monumental I remember thinking. The mixture of orange, fuchsia, and yellow of the evening sky behind it created a breathtaking scene on it’s own, so much so, he could have just let us silently gaze at the sunset, with the plane in dark contrast, and most of us would have probably realized the message he was about to spell out. I guess he had had a bad day: his troop was kind of falling apart at the end of the six weeks of training so he took us out of our situation and I believe his intent was to help us realize why we were there. He told us about the friends of his that lost their lives defending his country… our country. He reminded us to think of those loved ones we personally knew, he described to us his career which began in Vietnam and his father’s career which got its start in Korea. Then he confided in us how proud he was of each and every one of us for making the choice to protect our beautiful country and our American way of life. We were all crying by the end of his talk, including him. We watched the sun set to dusk behind that beautiful, massive, vital piece of history and then we slowly strolled… in step of course, back to the barracks in silence except for our collectively soft heal-beat… all of us pondering what had just happened and understanding our higher purpose for the first time in our military careers.

During this patriotic time of year; let’s focus on those things we take for granted and put some extra effort into appreciating them, taking steps toward sharing this level of appreciation with our visitors and new Americans. For me it’s all about family. Picnics and potato salad with the men in aprons at the grill side, women setting out the food and swatting eager hands that want to sneak a taste of the frog-eye salad before anyone yells “Come and get it”. The kids screaming and laughing as they run through the sprinklers, pieces of freshly cut grass plastered to their legs, each in possession of a fully loaded water gun at the ready. It’s the discussions surrounding the past with those of the older generations and now younger as well: veterans recalling those frightful times in combat as well as what it was like not knowing whether or not they would ever see their girlfriends, wives, or first born every time they embarked on another mission. We proudly wave our American flags at every doorstep, in their honor, on every flagpole in every small town, big city and farmyard. It’s that confidence we have knowing we are under no threat; you have the right to say what you want and practice any religion that moves you without repercussion. The law is specifically spelled out and if you act within it; you are literally free.

I hear the stories of the anguish suffered, the separation of families, and the injuries endured in order for people to get into our country. I have listened to individuals tell the story of their war-torn country and how fear existed as a part of their everyday lives until they made it to American soil where they no longer live with that panic and anxiety that their children might not make it to adulthood. These stories remind me of those told by the parents and families of every one of our troops fighting in Iraq and every other “war” of our history fought to preserve and spread those freedoms that we Americans hold dear.

I see and hear the similarities.

This I believe. We are all here for the same reasons; we all want the same freedoms and opportunities for a better life that only America can offer. Instead of wrestling with my feelings about the tiny comment I overheard from that young lady, I believe I should have done something to be a better example for her. In retrospect, I should have made the effort to study and learn the language so the next time I will know exactly what she is saying; possibly it wasn’t what I thought I heard. I could have interjected and explained to her how her comment hurt me and why….and maybe we could have talked it out and ceased to perpetuate the disdain for which she and her group of friends seemed to feel such passion.

Being an American is about acceptance of differences. People of different cultures living side by side and working together, congregations of divergent religions coming together to help where and when needed. It’s about being a good example and teaching tolerance to our children so they grow up without fear or malice toward their neighbors no matter their place of birth or their race, it’s about freedom for us all.

The family gatherings around this time of year are fun and memorable as are the fireworks displays and small town parades. I encourage each of us to spread that patriotic spirit we feel when we are looking up at the splendor and listening to Lee Greenwood, every day to all of those around us. Through education and example, the true spirit of America will prevail, but it starts face to face and one on one, not through television and impersonal email forwards. It’s my view that it’s every American’s responsibility to sow the seed of patriotism and every American’s reward to watch that love of country grow and flourish amongst everyone who is born here or makes the conscious choice to begin a new life here with us.

—–North Bend Eagle, 10 July 2007

Folks, I sure struggled this month. Spring offers so many ideas and at the same time takes up every extra second. Between the weed wrangling, softball game chasing, mowing, watering, “Mom-I’m-bored-there’s-nothing-to-do-whining, did I already mention mowing?, and then there’s work of course; I plain struggled to find the necessary time to contemplate my “view” for you.

So I laid awake in bed, early this past Sunday morning as thoughts of not only my pending deadline, but so many other things were racing, though admittedly in slow motion, through my foggy brain; inspiration smacked into my North window as if the Gods were throwing me a fast pitch to see if I was brave enough to engage and take a swing. I’m fortunate in that I can see out every direction of my house from my bedroom loft so I sat for a moment at the edge of my bed and watched as this tiny, Quixotic, yellow warbler scratched and clawed at my glassy Northern view. She flapped herself silly in her vain attempt to perch on the smooth, vertical surface and then finally gave up and hopped over to the less resistant, more practical, honeysuckle branch. I made my way down the stairs without breaking my line of vision, I didn’t want to lose her and sure enough, as I’d hoped she might, she opened up and let forth with her characteristic song whose composition can only be classified as heaven sent.

A couple of years ago I read “The Big Year” by Mark Obmascik. The title refers to a race, if you will, where the world’s most avid birders compete to visualize the most bird spieces over a 365-day time period while remaining in the continent. Believe it or not they find in excess of 735 species by the year’s end. They spare no expense and it can get fairly vicious gaining the title of the “North American Birder” for their efforts. I have no intention of cashing in my chips, maxing out my credit cards, and going on that quest at any time in my life but I did make an immediate beeline to my favorite used book store in order to find myself a Petersens: those of you who know birds, know what that is. Since then I’ve studied my small, feathered, highly-conversational neighbors in more and more detail because I’ve found that knowledge can only enhance the enjoyment of just about anything….in my view.

I continued to appreciate my petite friend’s pleasant warble as I waited for my coffee, threw on my oldest therefore softest, most comfortable, holy sweatshirt and my tattered flip flops, grabbed a pen and a notepad and wandered up the short path to my chair on the southeastern end of my trees as I so often do on Sunday before the rest of the world comes to. George Bernard Shaw once wrote: “The best place to seek God is in the garden. You can dig for him there.” I think we each find our “way” somehow and his words seem to get me there just fine with the added perk of not having to struggle with the painful, strenuous feat of the donning of pantyhose in order to impress the other parishioners. I’m definitely in the class of women who could go a lifetime without ever finding the need to wear stockings up to her chest, for any reason. The beaked and furry members of my congregation don’t seem to mind my ratty attire as we worship together under the verdant, emerald and golden-flecked camopy taking the place of the grandest arches of any cathedral, the sweet, enmeshing voices of the birds: our choir, and this old, sun-faded, used-to-be-green lawn chair: my peronal, front-row pew.

Everyone’s gardens at this time are perfection…. I guess that’s the one word I can use to almost adequately describe them. I wish I possessed half the talent of so many of my siblings and could paint the beauty I see. I’d be able to capture the contrast of the glimmering, morning, dew-topped grass against the fat, fluffy, orange and creamy-white, overstuffed, blob that is our cat. He who chose us over all of our equally-worthy neighbors a couple of years ago as if he recognized the two people/suckers who would bestow upon him his rightful position of nobility in their home. He’s parked, in his usual spot next to me, with the tree trunk at his back, ears alert in contrast to the drowsy, smiling, I-could-care expression on this face, obviously listening as intently as I to the warblers, robins, wrens, nuthatches, finches, and sparrows who musically make their way through their day’s itinerary. A train whistle breaks up the meeting as it screams out it’s warning to the folks a couple of miles North of here. My heavy-set feline bothers to slowly turn his head toward the familiar, shrill sound, he cocks it slowly to the side as silence befalls our forest, and finally returns his head to it’s original position once the choir gets back to business.

Our resident squirrel has finally made his way over to the branches arched above the barn behind my garage to vie for my attention with his weekly gift of assorted nuts. He likes to shower me with affection to let me know I am intruding, more than anything I think. The cardinal couple as well are arguing with each other and then the male is the one nominated to step forth and scold me like your uncle might should you mistakenly over-stay your welcome.

By now the rising sun has illuminated each blade of grass and each delicate new leaf. It has also brought that stained-glass appearance to the flowers if you let your eyes go out of focus and it can only happen during these early hours of sunrise before the shadows disappear and the colors fall flat under the direct rays of that very same sun as it climbs higher with the passing of each minute.

And so I encourage everyone of you to take a good old-fashioned Sunday drive this weekend, provided you’ve got the crop in of course. Find a place to park, and turn off the engine in a random alley; you’re all welcome to use ours here in Morse, it’s as good as any, maybe at the top of a hill on one of the minimum maintenance country roads, or best yet: venture onto an old, forgotten, unused car path that winds deep in amongst the ash, elms, and cedars along our bluffs. Lean back in your seat, put your hat down over your eyes, and just listen for awhile. I hope I didn’t loose too many of you with my nirvana-like musings but it’s Spring in Nebraska and as usual; I just couldn’t help myself.

—North Bend Eagle 12 June 2007

You’re driving around in the dark on a Spring morning, studying the street corners, scrutinizing the home-made advertisement signs stuck in the lawns and plastered to the poles to ascertain their freshness. Were they put up today or last week? There appears to be no one else around and you ask yourself; “What’s wrong with this neighborhood? The paper said “City-Wide Garage Sales Starting at 7 a.m.” don’t they know that means we are going to be ready at 6?” You become temporarily frustrated and mentally discouraged. “I think this is going to be a dud, I should have gone to Lincoln.”

All of a sudden; there it is! The first garage sale of the weekend. Not only is it the first to open on this Friday morning, but you are the first customer to “sale” in! You slow your car down and do a quick visual sweep to make sure it’s worth stopping for. Is it worth missing what might be down the road where the competitiion is first arriving ahead of you? You decide; “Yes!” your heart is already beating like that of an Olympic athlete, you take a quick swig of your gas station coffee, and you begin to feel that sense of relief because you’re confident your garage-sale-jones will soon be satisfied.

You are out of your vehicle before you even turn off the engine and your second step launches you into a dead run. You’re there and the game plan you formed as you turned off the car is under way. You’ve decided to stick with the old standby of “left to right” so you start on the west end of the driveway. It’s a nice, established neighborhood, the proprietor appears to be in her 70s and she informs you that she has to get rid of this stuff she’s been hanging on to for the past 50 years because she’s moving to a condo closer to the doctor’s offices and such. (It’s these words that make a garage sale junkie experience their peak as far as anticipatory rush goes!) “Oh happy day!” you say to yourself, then you remind yourself to calm down…don’t give her any leverage, don’t give her anything to bargain with, breathe, relax, focus….focus.

“Junk…junk….got that….junk…..trash….has-potential-but-would-cost-too-much-to-fix….junk….why did I stop here?….I thkink I made a horrible mistake….I’ll bet I’m missing a great bargain on the next street over….oh my gosh! I can’t believe she only marked that priceless jug at 25 cents! Is it reallly what I think it is” You turn it over with the practiced hands of a novice antique dealer and notice the mark that matches the one in your reference catalog. “It is! Calm down, calm down, don’t let on, take it up there and give that woman a quarter before she realizes she just gave away a $550.00 dollar collectible for practically nothing.”

You’re back in the car, you carefully lay your “treasure” next to you on the empty passenger seat and quickly start the engine with shaking hands. “I can not believe it! Such good fortune, and on my first stop! It’s almost like stealing but legal!”

It’s 0610 and you are off to the next adventure of your morning of, what I like to call: “Sale-ing”. The sun is starting to add to the light of your headlights, the adrenaline from your first find is still there but you must keep looking to the next sale. You’ve got to put it behind you for now and concentrate. You’ve probably got 20-30 stops all mapped out so you finish before 10 am. Every seasoned sale-er knows that everything will be completely picked over by that time.

I can personlly enjoy a good day of garage sales myself. I’ve felt that high-like buzz and I can vouch or confess that it is definitely addictive. If it weren’t for the generosity of other’s in their drive-ways and at their auctions, I wouldn’t have been able to furnish my house. Almost everything at my place is “gently used” including the water softener, the fridge, and even the windows. I cherish a book more if I know many others have read it and it’s always an added bonus if there’s anonomously hand-written notes in the margins.

When I first moved back, I went to so many auctions and had my parents bidding on other things I needed at simultaneous auctions, it seemed like that was our weekend kjob. We all know that it’s not so much the kill but the hunt that we crave…so I shouldn’t really classify this type of shopping as a job….it’s more of a sport.

There’s just something about that rhythm of the auctioneer and that moment when Mr. Martindale says; “Sold to the young lady, number 56!” Or whatever number but it was ME he was pointing at! I always feel like I’m on the Price Is Right or something. Brad Martindale himself even delivered a stove that I had “won” at one of his auctions. Not only to my door, but up my steep, cement steps and right into the perfect spot next to my sofa of course. Now that’s service! You pay extra for that when you buy something new and instead of feeling like you’ve won something, you feel like you’re getting swindled somehow. Isn’t that the truth?

It may not be a favorite pass time of yours and even if you don’t necessarily “need” anything, you should go “Garage Sale-ing” one morning with a friend or spend a day at an auction. It’s inexpensive entertainment and everyone knows there isn’t anything you can’t find cheaper at a garage sale if you look hard enough.

—North Bend Eagle 8 May 2007

You’ve probably already read some articles surrounding the sale of Larry Racek’s lifetime accumulation of farm equipment which actually spanned generations of their family. You’ve heard details about this incredible collection, the amazing amount of bidder’s numbers sold, and the superb way in which the Stock’s handled everything. You’ve even seen a wonderful aerial photograph thanks to Ray; what a nice keepsake of an amazing piece of Morse Bluff history, thanks again Ray Stranik!

I had decided earlier in the week that I had to go, I just felt it necessary to be a part of it. So I called the ladies of the Morse Bluff American Legion Auxiliary and begged them to let me work at their food stand. Funny thing is; they were more than happy to accommodate me, imagine that.

I was there a little late; around 0745 and after a few attempts was told where I could and couldn’t park. I pulled up to the house and I had to ask Jerrine where the ladies were setting up shop. She motioned behind me: “They’re up in the machine shed, at the top of the hill, it’s kind of muddy.” I thanked her, walked around my car and right then and there decided that my old tennis shoes were probably not the best choice of foot wear for the day as I checked out the lane leading up to where all the action was about to take place.

I could feel the excitement in the air as I made my way to the massive shed, which by the way, I had no idea was back there behind the trees all these years, not to mention all of that equipment. I think most people who live around here felt the same way. Every person I met was on a mission and all was coming together in precise form. There were familiar faces everywhere, even at that early time, busy getting ready for the main event. They were wet, cold, and mud soaked from the knee down; but they were all willing and eager to help out. The Morse Bluff Auxiliary had the food stand set up long before I got there and we just had some last minute things to do before everything got rolling. The skies were dark and cloudy but that didn’t dampen the spirits of the people running around the Racek farm that early Friday morning.

Jerrine’s beautiful rendition of the National Anthem which kicked off the bidding, seemed to make the rising sun shine even brighter and in spite of the previous night’s rain, it turned out to be a beautiful morning, perfect by anyone’s standards. I watched as the trucks and trailers began to fill the lush, green alfalfa field to the south of the yard. Farmers were lining themselves up without any direction, just their normal sense of orderliness and respect to guide them. I’m sure it has somehting to do with that pride in a straight, furrowed row as they look back after each pass in their fields. From our view out the south side of the machine shed; it seemed as if people were just randomly walking up from all directions. Their boots and over boots heavy with mud, some succumbing to the sticky coolness, but not letting it faze them, they just picked themselves up, wiped their hand off on the clean spots, and kept on pushing until they reached the auctioneer’s van to secure their numbers.

In spite of the fact that they hadn’t hiked that far in a long while, folks still showed in great numbers. Every farmer, including those that wished they still were; turned out from miles around just to get a peek at the tractors of their past, if not to vie for the chance to own one once again.

Some women showed in total contrast to their appropriately-clad husbands, with Spring suitable open-toed sandals and white pants. I remember thinking; “If that were me, I’d be carrying 5 pounds of the muck just between my toes”; but somehow these ladies remained in their pristine form. Most of the women came from the farm in their work boots and flannel, promptly after chores I imagine. Their small children bundled similarly on their’s and their husband’s hips. The older kids with their too tall, brightly-colored, rubber boots and overly large farm caps with the bill pressed to a curl, dressed to match Dad as best they could. Sheer joy shown on their faces due to the fact that Mom didn’t care, just for today, that they were getting delicioulsly covered in mud.

The talk of tractors between farmers, and the: “When I was a kid, son…..” conversations that could be overheard throughout the day are irreplaceable memories for me and add to the long list of reasons I came back to live in this wonderful place.

The lunch stand was the best place to meet and greet folks. There truly were people from all over the United States; I even met a guy who had never heard of kolaches! Fortunately, Nadine had donated several hundred for the sale and this “kolache virgin” was able to sample the World’s Best right off the bat; we heard no complaints I assure you. The smell of sloppy joes is always a good draw for any food stand and they flowed in steady all day, each with a happy greeting, a healthy appetitie, and most folks had a kind word of thanks as they left us.

The afternoon came to a close as the new owners took turns pulling their flatbeds, trailers, and trucks up to the top of the hill to claim their “winnings”. The farmers I saw were grateul that the walk back to their trucks, which were parked along the highway, was downhill. They were full and exhausted but smiling. The sun was just warm enough on our backs to guide a perfect day and a memorable farm sale to a perfect end in our small corner of the world.

—North Bend Eagle 10 April 2007

Park’s, Burpee’s, Breck’s, Gurney’s, Wayside, Springhill, Four Seasons…..

If you recognize the list above and can easily declare what each item has in common, you are a gardener and I know what you were doing or thinking about while the snow fell and you were stranded in your home for a weekend or two this past month. It may sound crazy, but after I got the sidewalks, stairs, and walkways shoveled for the final time after the “Blizzard of ‘07?, I went over to my magnolia bush and dug down through the snow to see if my crocus were blooming yet. What? Like I’m the only one!

I don’t know if it’s the seed catalogs that we are bombarded with through January, February, and March…(by the way, did you know that January is National Mail Order Gardening Month?), the fact that the daisies I brought in before the first frost began blooming and filling my south window with their incredible color, or if it’s just that we find comfort during the uncomfortable, unpredictable weather that is March in Nebraska by thinking about our dormant plots underneath the snow. Whatever the reason, my garden and my trees start calling me around 5:30 am, before the buzzer, each morning and I lay there planning the layout of the rows, dreaming of new varieties to try, and wrestling with the blankets of snow that cover the new flower beds of my dreams. I just can’t wait to get out there!

My obsession with flowers started with simple, petunia pot gardens on second floor balconies; they were always unusual and cheery amongst the rusting grills and empty beer cans that graced the low rent apartments I stayed in near the Air Force bases. By getting my hands in the dirt I was able to clear my mind and decrease stress. When you’re a farm girl chained to a windowless desk job for 40 hours a week; you can find solace in the manual labor of carrying 40lb bags of potting soil up two flights of stairs and across your beige apartment carpet….well, at least I could.

Most of us don’t raise a garden to feed a family or support one, we do it because we love to have the flowers all around, in every view of every window of our homes. It’s a fun and easy pastime that anyone can do. I basically put seeds or plants into the ground and wait, occasionally I weed but that part tends to get away from me and I’ve learned to relax…because it’s okay. I’ve learned most from my closest professional gardener: my Dad. His most important lesson: the best thing you can do to help ensure the crop or the veracity of the plant is to irrigate: don’t be stingy, don’t miss a day, and don’t rely on Mother Nature. You can fertilize ’til the cows come home but if you don’t water enough you might as well forget it. I’ve learned about placement, when to let it grow out, when to cut it back, when to plant, when to harvest, etc. from the ladies around me. In the beginning they even had to explain which plants were weeds and which plants were not. I was definitely familiar with what to cut out of a row of beans with a corn knife but which seedlings are from the seeds I planted and which are indigenous weeds….not really a clue and it’s best to catch them early if you can , so I paid attention.

I don’t know how it is in your town but in Morse Bluff, we tour in the early morning or in the cool evening to check each other’s progress. We discuss techniques over the fence leaning on our hoes, we share bulbs, we exchange seeds, we gather the fruits of our labors and swap tomatoes for cucumbers at each others’ garden gates, we even give it away at the post office. It’s a great way to get to know your neighbor, catch up on gossip, and bypass trial-and-error-gardening by listening to the tips from folks who’ve been at it longer.

I guess I miss that during these winter months when we are all in our houses, barricaded against the cold. I fight the urge on the occasional day in March when the temperature reaches into the 50s to bring my daisies out of their warm window and onto the still cool deck. Fortunately, reality hits and I know I’ll just have to lug them back in again, so houseplants, they remain. Me, on the other hand, I’m venturing out and “touring” each morning or evening; getting in a good walk while checking the firmness of the earth with each step to determine if the frost is actually fading, breathing deeply to hopefully detect that faint, sweet, familiar smell of distant blossoms on the air, and to share the road with the robins bathing in the puddles next to the melting snow piles on the sides of the streets. These are all sure signs that the Spring we gardeners crave, will soon be more than just a dream.

—North Bend Eagle 13 March 2007

“Romance is dead. It was acquired in a hostile takeover by Hallmark and Disney, homogenized, and sold off piece by piece.” Matt Groening

I completely and whole-heartedly disagree! Who’s with me?

February is this inocuous, frigid, 2nd month of the year that somehow contains a day set aside for turning up the heat in relationships and expressing your feelings of love. I decided to take the easy, obvious road this month and explore this a little, for my own benefit, if not for yours.

Let’s start with St. Valentine shall we? According to my brief internet search, the consensus is that there were three such saints. I’ll pick the most romantic legend: the one who fell in love with his jailor’s daughter while she secretly visitied him throughout his sentence. Before he was put to death, he wrote her a love letter signed: “From your Valentine,” A perfect example of obviously unrequited love, at least for the poor, empty-handed girl. This is just one of many versions of the tale. All of which depict a heroically martyred, sympatheitc, romantic figure of a man: a saint among saints in every case.

I found that the 14th day of February has many origins as well. I like the one that notes this time as the official begining of Spring. During the Middle Ages in England and France, this was the time of the year that the birds began to pair and choose mates.

It’s my view that if you have already chosen your mate, Valentine’s Day affords you the perfect opportunity to show them that you don’t regret that choice. I can see where it would be convenient to dismiss Valentine’s Day as a corny, comercialistic, waste of money and time. Couples are so busy with everyday life that romantic poems, expressive gestures, beautiful flowers, and surprise phone calls about nothing except to say “I love you”, seem ridiculous and pointless in the whole scheme of things. But is that a fair argument? When is the last time you stopped and stood facing each other in complete peace to focus on the only person that is a true witness to your life? How long could it possibly take to write a note or call the flower shop? Think of the pay off! It seems to me, in the whole scheme of things, that it would be worth it though I have no experience and I am no expert.

I am, however, a “hopeful romantic” and I’m sure it’s because like so many of us, I haven’t experienced that day to day business which is the not-so-romantic side of a committed relationship. Couples who’ve managed to find that comfortable companion in their lives need to occasionally realize what a wonderful thing they have in that person and never take it for granted. If you are one of those single individuals that isn’t sure if they are ready to profess their love to that unsuspecting, special someone…do it now for crying out loud! What if the world ends tomorrow, more realistically; what if someone else beats you to the punch while you are weighing your options and mustering your courage? Your window of opportunity is quickly approaching and what’s the worst thing that could happen?

For the rest of us….I will close with a quote from a little book in my private library: Reflections of a Bachelor Girl by Helen Rowland; copyright 1909 (I’m thinking it still holds true): “The saddest sight on earth is an old bachelor trying to sew on a button with a blunt needle and a piece of string.”

—North Bend Eagle 13 Feb 2007