"....And 'Ohana' Means Family"

     For as long as I can remember, my mom and dad took me camping. Our first camper was a pop-up Palomino--it was similar to the one pictured below. Eventually, we graduated to a Mallard, then Coachman Carriage. The only other blood-related family we camped with was my dad's brother, wife, and some of their kids. However, we made various friends with whom we became close during our travels. 

Aunt Hazel and Uncle Earl with their Palomino Pop-up

    About a year ago, one of my cousin's (my dad's brother's kid) with whom my parents and I used to camp decided that we should meet at Baker Regional Park to camp together.

We all stink at remembering to take pics, so there aren't any of us all. 

However, here's one my dad took of me and Wendy at St. Croix State Park!

    Interestingly enough, I camped at Baker Park a lot growing up--just not in the campground. We camped at a group camp with the Minnesota Woodcarvers, of which my dad was a member. I have very fond memories of catching tadpoles in the slough--some of which briefly became frogs in a fishtank in the backyard--and garter snakes in the side of the old barn...and I knew better than to even ask or attempt to bring these home. 

    Tonight I decided to find the group camp we used to stay in, and after two strikes, I found it: it's now known as Marshview Group camp. 

    My memory involved a much longer dirt road into the camp with a steeper hill down into it and a larger, more open space. However, at least 40 years have passed since I was last here; the place has changed, as has my perspective. The barn was still there, though it had been remodeled and the upper part was locked up. 

    And that rock wall that once housed many generations of garter snakes was still there. A few kicked rocks and a brush of the grass around it didn't make anything stir, and I was disappointed. The slough was now filled in with cattails and other aquatic grasses. Yet the place still exists. 

    I'm working this into a metaphor for friendships. At least, I'm trying to.

As I've been traveling, I've made stops to reconnect with friends. First, I met up with Tammy Poitra, my good friend who lives in Dunseith. She is like a sister to me. 

    My second stop was at Northwest Acres in Stephen, Minnesota, where Lynn and Shelly Safranski came to meet me. Although the marriage through which we met dissolved, the friendship is still there. 15 years had passed since we'd last seen each other. We chatted easily about our pasts, presents, and hoped-for futures. Because I always forget to take pics, I will use this bag of strawberries--known as ode'min, or heart berry, in Ojibwe culture--to represent that visit.

    Then I stopped in Orr, Minnesota, at Pine Acres, where my friend Toni Wakemup and her fiance Chuck came to visit me at the campground. Again, we chatted like the ten years since we'd last seen each other and almost twenty years since we'd worked together hadn't gone by.

    After my next stop at Scenic State Park in Bigfork, Minnesota, I stayed at Bear Head and Vermillion State Parks, then trekked up to northwestern Burntside Lake near Ely, where I visited with my cousin Julie and her husband Dan Hirsch. Due to heavy rains, a couple sections of the road that lead to their cabin washed out (one of them is pictured below--but St. Louis County road crews came through! It hadn't been too long--less than a year--since I'd seen them at her sister Mary's and her husband Mark's house. Much to our surprise and happiness, our dogs--both of whom can be reactive towards some other dogs--met and didn't react! 

    Down to St. Croix State Park I went to met Tommy Rattles, whom I have kept in touch via text and social media but hadn't seen in person for about ten years. We hung out for the day and he helped keep Pluto company while I did laundry and grabbed some groceries. "It was a gooder day," as he says. Waab was a punk, however, and hid the entire time we hung out at the campground. Again, I failed to take pics of us.

    In Maple Plain, Minnesota, at the Baker Regional Park campground, I camped with some cousins and others came for a visit. Wendy and her husband Jim were there. This time, because it was closer to the Cities, her son Jake and his fiancee Nilou and her daughter Emily and her wife Cathy also came out to camp. I have only met Nilou once or twice before and I haven't spent much time with Cathy, so it was great to get to know them all a bit more. A friend from high school whom I hadn't seen in about 10 years, Sara Renner, came out to visit for an evening. My cousin Jen and one of her daughters Sammy visited one day, and it was awesome to reconnect with Jen, whom I hadn't seen for a few years, and get to know Sammy, who is this sweet old soul. 

    My extended family--Dan and Sue; one of their daughters Erica, her husband Kurt, and one of their kids Alden; Kristine, her son Ian and daughter Ilianna; and Kingsley and Manu--came to picnic, visit and spend some time on the water, too. I see them at least once a year, and it's always good to spend time together. The boys hadn't seen Pluto for about 5 years, so that was fun.

    From Baker, I headed north to Mille Lacs Kathio State Park. Cousin Jen brought her mom Gloria up for a visit and I made them a stir fry. I haven't seen Gloria in a few years and it was good to catch up a bit.  

    After a stop at Charles A. Lindbergh State Park in Little Falls, I went to Itasca State Park, where the most coincidental and longest-time-since-seeing reunions occurred.

    One of my best friends and I discovered that we'd be camping at Itasca during the same weekend. I had booked a site for camping, and one of her other good friends had booked a weekend through I Can Camp, a program the Minnesota DNR started to teach people essential camping skills. 

    I hadn't seen Jessica or Patrick since we'd graduated from high school 35 years ago. Through social media, Jessica and I connected and decided it'd be fun to camp and visit together at Itasca. They also accompanied me troll hunting in and around Detroit Lakes.

    Every reconnection made and every visit confirmed this: the ties that bind may stretch, but those tethers seldom break. I am grateful for every visit and hug. Ohana.

The Joy of the Trail

 

“Because of the dog's joyfulness, our own is increased. It is no small gift. It is not the least reason why we should honor as well as love the dog of our own life, and the dog down the street, and all the dogs not yet born. What would the world be like without music or rivers or the green and tender grass? What would this world be like without dogs?” 
― Mary Oliver, Dog Songs: Poems

As some of you know, it's been a difficult year. Not everything--and certainly not everyone--has made it so. Personally, I do not want to walk into the future lugging this bag of anger and negativity. I'm leaving it on the trail. This trip to Minnesota is all about reconnecting with my people--those who have been a part of my journey--and moving forward. 

Waab, Pluto, and I beginning our adventure

Last evening, two people I have missed came to my camper to visit--Lynn and Shelly Safranski. Lynn is very good friends with an ex of mine, and that's how I met him and his wife Shelly. Shelly and I were becoming close...but then the relationship with my ex unraveled. 

Although we haven't talked for many years and hadn't seen each other for about 15 years (when we randomly ran into each other at a casino), we've somewhat kept in touch on FB. When I knew I'd be traveling close to where they live, I thought it would be good to reconnect, so I found a spot to camp that's about 15 minutes from their house. 

Over the course of a 4-hour visit, we caught up a bit (turns out a lot of big and little stuff happens in fifteen years). Talking with them was as easy as it always had been. You know a friendship is solid when it just feels nice to spend time together without awkwardness. Shelly brought this bomb-ass chicken dumpling soup that we had for supper and gave me a stash of strawberries from her garden. I did my best to reciprocate with a loaf of rhubarb bread.

Today is Day 3 of my extended trek into Minnesota, the land I was born to. In addition to this state being home to many people I love, the land and everything on it--the trees, the grasses, and the flowers--all feel like home. 

Pluto and I checked out Old Mill State Park. I drove through the campground area, which was really pretty...but there wasn't a soul in it. The entire park itself is, in fact, not staffed. The park is also fairly remote. That did not feel like a safe place to camp alone, so I think I'm better off where I'm at. They did have some beautiful woodland and prairie trails there, though. 

Middle River in Old Mill State Park

I would like to think that the earth here remembers me; when I put down my offering at the beginning of today's hike, I thanked her for the grace and beauty she's shown me and the kindness of strangers and comfort of friends I haven't seen for many, many years. The answer was a breathy breeze of acknowledgment.

After that greeting, Pluto and I proceeded to hike about 4 miles of trails through woods and prairie. Hiking with him is a lot of fun--he sniffs random things, which makes me pause and look around to take in the moment and the scene around us. He becomes excited and pulls towards what makes him curious, hauling me in tow. Could I tell him to slow down and back off? Absolutely...and if it's dangerous or otherwise inappropriate, I do. Sometimes, he just stops and looks at me with what seems to be an expression of happy gratitude. Maybe he's mirroring the way I feel, because I am grateful for such a great hiking partner. 

The smiles say it all: we love this life!

Today, Pluto and I hiked the trails for about 3 hours until he led me back to the pickup. 

I don't know what this world would be like without dogs, and I hope to never find out. 

Hiking a trail at Icelandic State Park (Cavalier, ND)

Little House on the Prairie Chronicles: Hauling Water

Growing up in the Twin Cities, I never gave much thought to water. You turn on the tap or spigot; it comes out. Simple. A city employee collects your water usage information remotely via a signal emitted from your house's meter. Mystical. Once every three months, you receive a bill to pay for the amount of water you've used. Grrrrrr. How many of us actually read the amount of water we use? I didn't, unless the bill was higher than usual. Even when I did read it, I didn't give it much thought.

That changed when I moved to a country house in North Dakota and had to work for my water.

Here, we also have no direct water supply to the house; the water used for cleaning, showers, and toilet flushing we haul from the city's water tower.

It's an inconvenient chore, but is it cheaper than metered water! In the Cities, I would pay an average of $40 per month for the water used by the duplex I owned. Here, the cost of water averages less than $5 per month.

We also have no sewer system--it's a below-ground septic tank in our back yard, the precise location of which is unknown (finding it will be fodder for another blog and a possible reality TV episode...or two). If I were to take those long, scalding hot showers that I love, our tank would overfloweth...and who knows where that's going. I think it's safe to say that I'm not going to be dowsing for a well on the property. Even if we were to find a well, it wouldn't last that long; many people out here who have dug them have to relocate their well once every two or three years. I have no concept what digging a well involves, other than lots of time and money.

So we hi-ho, hi-ho, it's to the water tower we go. 

In the corner of our basement, a walled-off room  houses a 2,500 gallon cistern. Every so often, one of us will go downstairs, take a long piece of wood, and dip it into the cistern to measure how much water we have left. If the end of the stick is darkened by less than 3" of water, we need more. Weather permitting, we'll put the 250-gallon water tank on a trailer, hook the trailer up to a truck, gather quarters, and take a jaunt to downtown Flaxton.

Once we've arrived, Roger (because he's slightly taller with longer arms) will clamber up on the trailer and reach for the nozzle onto which he attaches the hose to put water into the tank. I position myself next to the coin slot and wait for further instruction: eye contact, a nod of the head, or that sort of nonverbal signal.

Then Roger unscrews the tank lid and inserts the other end of the hose into the tank. When he's braced himself sufficiently (that water comes shooting out at God-knows-how-many-gallons-per-second), he gives me a nonverbal signal to commence offering quarters to the Flaxton water gods. Reverently, we both wait for the metallic sound of rushing water that indicates the flood gates have been opened.

Mind you, it isn't a precise system, but the cost is most often $1.25 for 250 gallons of water. Sometimes, fortune smiles upon us and we can fill the tank for 75 cents. Sometimes, it costs $2.25. More often than not, though, I plug 5  American quarters, one at a time, into the slot on the side of the building. Canadian quarters jam the machine, resulting in an inability to shut off the water...at all. Roger found this out when someone had used a Canadian quarter and he tried to shut off the supply by holding down the water shut-off button. The supply didn't shut off and water shot everywhere until he could call someone in town to come shut it off (I was not along for this adventure). The most recent time we went, we arrived to find water pouring out of the overflow and creating a small slough at the base of one of the tower's feet. On this occasion, we met the public works supervisor (an engineer from Texas) and his wife (an architect from Switzerland). From our local water engineer, we learned that Flaxton has the best water in the state, brought up from a well 600-feet below the ground.

Once the tank is full, we bring the water back to the house, hook up a different hose to the tank's spigot, remove the repurposed tuna can that prevents critters from entering and drowning in the cistern and tainting our supply of the state's best water, shove the other end of the hose into a hole and feed it through some piping in the house's foundation, turn on the spigot, and let the tank drain into the cistern in the basement. This takes about 20 minutes.

After 3 or 4 trips, we have a full-enough cistern and enough water to last us for a month or so, provided that I don't take long showers and we abide by the "if it's yellow, let it mellow" maxim. 

You may be asking yourself, if you only clean with that water, with what do you cook? I don't cook anything that requires water...just kidding. 

The water with which we cook and give to the dogs is imported from Turtle Mountain taps when we go back for a visit. I'm most often the one who hauls the empty jugs--one- and 5-gallon--to one of our family's houses and fills them. Then I'll haul the filled jugs to the truck and we'll have enough potable water for a month or two.

When I moved up here, I didn't fully realize the importance--and precious nature--of water. However, now that I have to work for my water, I'm a lot more cognizant of how much I use and for what purpose I use it. I try to repurpose as much as possible. For example, when I give the dogs fresh water, for example, I will use yesterday's water to give the houseplants a drink. This isn't being stingy; it's being mindful that each drop of water wasted adds up to a sooner-than-necessary chore. I'd rather do things like write blogs and craft other pretty things than the chore of hauling water. 

Exorcising the Past

When Roger bought the house in Flaxton, the former owner had left behind things he couldn't--or wouldn't--haul with him to his new home.

Charles reminded me of the actor Ray Walston, circa OF MICE AND MEN era. His dilapidated clothing actually could have served as his character Candy's wardrobe for the film. Charles' personality, however, was not as sweet as the old swamper's; it could best be described as curmudgeonly. The man's stated views on politics and people, as well as his implied ideas of housekeeping, made me cringe. The elderly widower had lived here alone with his dog, an old german shorthair who left behind enough of his wiry fur to reassemble a new beast. His dog also left behind many blankets and pieces of furniture on which his tired, unwashed body had lain. Furthermore, his old dog incontinence had caused him to leak urine throughout the house. Charles, too, had left behind sundry remnants of his tenancy. He'd collected scrap metal, and rumor had it that he used to root through the local dump grounds to add to his hoard. Roger discovered Charles' personal dumping grounds for household rubbish on the northwest corner of the property in back of the outhouse, where he deposited personal material of an organic nature. Most of this detritus has been eliminated, repurposed or rehomed or is in the process of being dealt with properly.

Inside the house, complete matching bedroom sets filled the attic rooms--these most likely were left by the Bensons, who owned the place for many years before Charles. Among the items left on the house's main floor was a gas stove whose flames baptized the bottom of each pan with a thick layer of soot. Through trial and error, we found that if the flames were not on high or even medium, the amount of emitted soot could be mitigated. To clean these pots and pans, however, had always been an unholy mess. Soot on the counter, soot on the sponge, soot on your hands and under your nails, soot in the dishwater...yuck.

Yesterday was Sunday, the day on which I washed my last blackened pan. Hallelujah.

The day before, I'd helped Roger haul in an electric stove that had been in storage for ten years. I'd promised Roger to christen the oven by making baking powder  biscuits for him. As I scrubbed and shined the inside and outside of our new-to-the-home appliance, I rejoiced in our future of soot-free countertops and pots and pans and hands and water. Oh my, nothing could have prepared me for this baptism.

When we'd brought in the appliance, Roger had suggested that I run the empty oven first for a bit to burn off any cleaning chemicals. I cranked the oven up to 550 and let 'er buck while I assembled the dough. After the chemical smell abated, I decreased the oven temperature, popped the biscuits into the oven, set the timer, and cleaned up the kitchen. While I cleaned, I noticed a new smell...and it wasn't the smell of biscuits baking. Naturally, this was the moment Roger came inside and asked what was burning. He said he could smell it from outside while he was working.

"It's the cleaning chemicals, I think," I replied as I turned around to look at the oven...and noticed smoke wafting from the back of the appliance's right side.

The biscuits were done, so I hurriedly took them out and turned off the oven as Roger set to work diagnosing the cause of the smoke, which was steadily thickening. Phoebe, the golden retriever with the nose of a bloodhound, proceeded to run to the back door and anxiously paw at the welcome mat. Then she raced to the livingroom to cower beneath the coffee table. From the front porch, I grabbed the fan I'd bought for us a couple of summers ago and set it up in the kitchen window to blow the smoke outside. I returned to the front of the house and opened the door.  Then I walked to the back door and raised the storm window to invite more fresh air into the house. Armed with a bottle of Febreeze, I strode through the house, leaving a lavender-scented mist in my wake. I likened my purification rite to that of a Catholic priest waving a thurible and praying for the help of the saints. This demonic smoky stench had to go.

As I raced around the house, Roger coolly peered down the vents beneath the stovetop. While Roger sleuthed out the appliance's problem, I stopped to sample one of the freshly baked biscuits. The consistency of the biscuit was okay--not as flaky as those made with shortening,  but at least the inside was soft and the exterior wasn't as hard as a hockey puck. The flavor, however, was off. "This biscuit tastes like crap," I said and took another nibble to ascertain the source of the flavor foible. Indeed, the biscuits had a bitter taste, not the sweet, buttery flavor of biscuits I'd baked in the past.

"Come here--look at this," Roger said and waved me over to the stove.

First, he shined the light down the left-hand vent, which looked fairly clean for a used stove. Then he shined the light down the right-hand one, illuminating the cause of the smolder: mouse droppings and the makings of a nest.

"Yeah, I thought we should have waited to use the oven taken until after we'd cleaned out the sides, too," Roger belatedly stated.

Prior to this little fiasco, if he would have verbalized the possibility of hidden vermin dwellings inside the stove, I wouldn't have made these craptacular baked goods. I vowed to donate the biscuits to the area's wildlife with the hope that they would eat them and my labor would not be entirely in vain. But Roger had not suggested this potential problem to me, and I did not think of it, since when I'd cleaned it, I found no evidence of the appliance serving as a mouse condominium.

As the smoke cleared, Roger sat down in the livingroom.

"Try one of these, Roger," I said as I handed him a biscuit. "Does the flavor seem off to you?"

He bit into one. As he chewed, his face wrinkled in distaste. "They're kind-of bitter," he replied.

Touché.

Birdwalking in the Bush

In the mornings, birds fill the air, their lithe bodies swirling in the sky and songs ferried by the wind.

I stand, morning coffee cup in hand, and drink in the scene. Swallows with their split tails zoom overhead, occasionally lighting on a roof peak or the flag pole top. This morning, one alights on the flag pole top and lets loose a feather it had carried in its beak; this gift lands at my feet. A flock of birds similar to seagulls--minus the characteristic cry--circle high overhead, their flight suggesting concentric rings of water radiating from a disturbed surface. Mourning doves coo from their perches on telephone lines. Huge robins spar over something unbeknownst to me. A hungry owl squawks from somewhere in the trees. All the while, the wind's susurration whispers today's plan in my ear: it begins with a morning dogwalk down the gravel road in front of the house.

From the sloughs along the road, various duck breeds, red-winged blackbirds, yellow-headed blackbirds, killdeers, and starlings will abandon their posts as we pass. Some will cry alarms. The quacking of mallards and splash of water as they fly will attract the attention of Phoebe, the olden golden retriever, whose body freezes and ears open to catch the sound. She seems to instinctively recall her breeding and the job associated with it, and I will have to wrestle her away from the stagnant water of the ditch. Rugrat will scent invisible quarry from tall grasses and dive into the undergrowth, limited by the leash. She will emerge from the grasses unfazed and trot beside us as we continue our perambulation.

The life awaiting me outside the house beckons, and it's time to get out of my head to answer the call.

Little Home On the Prairie

I'm not wearing a bonnet (yet) and neither of my dogs' names are Bandit (yet), but I'm making the move to life in North Dakota in a little house between a prairie and a farm field.

People think of NoDak as one vast, unending prairie. While that stretch on 29 between Fargo and Grand Forks seems that way, the northern part of the state is very pretty. There are rolling hills, lakes stocked with healthy fish, trees that are more than windbreaks, wide open skies, and good roads. People are friendly and kind, too.

And multitudinous new experiences await me. For example, just this morning I put some mail out for the mailman to pick up, and I raised the little red arm on the mailbox to alert him. I've never done that before. Drink coffee in the morning in my pajamas on the back porch and watch the swallows swerve around the yard. Listen to the wind blowing through the trees, the silence occasionally interrupted by a train whistle and the intermittent squawk of a hungry female owl letting her big hunter know that she's hungry (they do that when they're nesting or have a owlet to look after). Walk the dogs down dusty country roads and struggle to keep the golden retriever out of sloughs where ducks are swimming. It's peaceful and calming.

And I write. So far, a lot of it's in my head and heart and wherever else inspiration awaits incarnation. I imagine what form my life here will take, and if that form is a something with which I can live. I pray for the happiness and safety of my family, friends, and former students back in the Cities and around the world.

For all the idyllic details, there are inconveniences. No trash service, so you have to burn it, bring it to the dump, or haul it to work and surreptitiously slip it in the company dumpster. No well nor a connection to a water main, so we fill the large basement cistern from the water tower. Cheapest groceries are at least 1.5 hours away (Walmart in Minot). In other words, there is a certain mindfulness required to live here...and this is actually kinda cool. You have to ask yourself how much you really need certain things.

I'm happy here, though I miss some people in the Cities. I will see them soon, and I'm only a phone call, text, post, tweet, Skype session, road trip, train or plane ride away. Laura Ingalls didn't have that convenience or connectivity. We live in an age in which physical distance does not end relationships unless we choose to let it. I choose to stay in touch with those who are a part of my life, and I hope others choose to reciprocate.

Changes

You didn't honestly think you'd get out of a blog entry without being subjected to some music, did you? This morning's earworm for me has been the song "Changes", a Phil Ochs cover performed by Neil Young. I suggest you start the song before you read today's blog rumination. That's only a suggestion--you can do what you want. It's a free country, more or less. By the way, happy Fourth of July!

Neil Young performs Phil Ochs' "Changes" at the Chicago Theater

Today I've been thinking a lot about changes. My friends and I have been going through some major life shifts. Change is something to which we can all relate--births, deaths, jobs, relationships, etc--though some people welcome and deal with these permutations more effectively than others.

That idea being set forth, let me begin with a story: a block from my house is an aerie--an eagle's nest. It's been there for about 7 years now, and each year, two or three eaglets are born and raised in it. This year, there's a different female who has helped hatch and raise the brood--the female in previous years had a pure white tail, and this one still has some brown in her tail feathers. Papa Eagle has a new, younger mate! It's a romantic myth that eagles mate for life--they tend to, because they're territorial and return to the same nesting area year after year. Since I live by the river, there are several aeries in the area, which means several potential mates.

Yesterday evening, the female eagle was teaching the two eaglets how to call--she would call, then the eaglets would mimic her in fledgling voices. It sounded to me like an attention call, a "hey, come here" that I've heard from the male or female when one of them is sitting in the nest and calling the other back. Since these eaglets seem to be a week or two from flight, it seems appropriate that an attention call is one of the first calls they're taught.

Eagle's Attention Call

This is not my footage, but it's a similar call to

 what I heard the mother eagle teaching her eaglets

Over the past seven years, I've taken lots of pictures of the eagles, and the image below is one of my favorites.

The two neighborhood eagles in the Talking Tree near my house. 

When you spot the eagles in the tree, you might see that their silhouettes form a heart shape. According to the Seven Teachings, Eagle is associated with love, which many people associate with this heart shape. Cool coincidence, huh?

Different American Indian tribes and bands have different teachings, but there are some commonalities. One that I've noticed is that since Eagle flies the highest of all the birds, it is closest to the Creator. I'm not sure if that's the influence of Christian religion on traditional American Indian religion; it could also be that the sky is associated with the Creator since the sun and the moon and stars are a part of it. Maybe it's a combination of both ways of thinking. In any case, from his/her high vantage point, Eagle can see the past, present, and future and the flow of change. Eagle alerts us to these changes so we can respond in a good way.

Since Eagle in associated with the connection between the Great Mystery and Earth and can see the flow of human events, s/he is associated with courage and wisdom. Eagle's wisdom gives us courage to understand when a change will occur or needs to be made. In turn, this knowledge helps us muster up the courage to face or execute the change. This is a beautiful idea to me, as many of my friends and family are going through changes. I think about them a lot and wonder how I can best support and help them; maybe they think of me, too, and wonder the same thing. As I go through these shifts, helping my friends and family also helps me; I learn by assisting others. As I gain understanding, I can pass these teachings on to others to help them. I suppose my love of learning and appreciation of reciprocity would be a large part of why I'm a teacher.

Heavy stuff, that.

For me--and perhaps you--it boils down to this: the reciprocal nature of teaching and learning is a testament to our interconnectedness. You need me, and I need you. We need to be kind to and look out for each other. Please do so.

Thank you, and have a good day.