I’m going to jump right in on this topic and not bother with a warm-up. The title is self-explanatory in the Midwest, because a “food chain” here actually involves food.
When we first hear it, the food chain allegory may confuse the Midwesterner. We look a bit askance when we hear, “He’s obviously pretty low on the food chain.” What? Are they calling him an egg? …a calf? …a seedling? Is he a farmer? …a locker owner? …a milk hauler?
Midwesterners think of a food chain as the route food takes to get to our tables. Even in our metropolitan areas we know where food comes from. You can’t drive down I35 from Minneapolis to Kansas City and not catch a whiff of the obvious.
We start growing things from seeds, and sources of bull semen can be found in the yellow pages. People here are responsible for produce from planting to harvest, and for meat from the farrowing pen to the slaughterhouse. There’s a middle man in the food chain, too, and lots of people think that’s where food comes from. Midwesterners know the folks who think that aren’t even IN the food chain, let alone able to identify somebody’s position in it.
City folk naively think of farmers and the residents of any town with a population under 50,000, as low on the food chain. We shake our heads – man, if it weren’t for farmers, those guys wouldn’t have the strength to call us names. The food chain starts with farmers, for cryin’ in the night. As a matter of fact, the entire economy of Midwestern small towns revolves around the farmer, from whence the food chain originates. Duh.
Or, in the words of Napoleon Dynamite, “Gaaaaah!! You are such a dork!”
As an aside, quilters get this all the time. Not only do we suffer from the stereotype as people who don’t have enough significant work to keep themselves busy, there is also the perception that cutting up fabric and sewing it back together again, repeatedly, is only interesting to somebody pretty low on the food chain. Folks better think twice before they dis a quilter, because we are often at the highest level of the Midwestern food chain – we prepare the food just before you eat it. Aha! Chew on that for awhile!
The food chain in the corporate world refers to one entity being strong enough to consume a weaker entity. We learn all about that food chain in physical science in the ninth grade, starting with a tiny amoeba and working up to, say, a hippopotamus. A little minnow is eaten by a Northern Pike, a human feasts on a duck dinner, and a python snarfles up a bicyclist, unless the bicyclist rides a Mongoose™, purportedly the “best in performance bikes since 1974”. Clearly, the corporate food chain is a seek-and-destroy system, where if “you snooze, you lose", and somebody else gets to do a jig in the end zone.
That is the polar opposite of the Midwesterner’s food chain. There is no advantage to wishing ill-will on your fellow farmers, and the folks in town are as apt to help out a family who suffers a setback as the neighbors in that family’s township. We have Catholic Knights and Thrivent Financial for Lutherans waiting with matching funds, and many hands to pitch in when the call for help goes out. We bring combines, balers, hot dishes, babysitting help, and rides to dialysis. We put names on prayer chains and sign up for walkathons and dunk tanks. No matter where you are on the food chain, you’re important and your role is valued.
Some of that cutthroat, too-big-for-your-britches stuff happens here, too. The difference is, it really stands out in rural communities, and is usually not rewarded. It may be tolerated, but not rewarded. We believe there is room for improvement in everyone’s behavior, and hope those offenders will come to their senses someday.
Yes, the food chain here does involve food, but it involves people, too. Calmar, Iowa, has been recognizing farmers with an annual festival for the past 100 years. Being at the bottom of the food chain is a place of honor, noble and essential to life everywhere. Food for the body is planted and harvested here, but in the process we cultivate food for our souls.
Copyright © Kari E.O. Burns 2007
That Barn!
That Barn! He always has a million ways to surprise us, or as I like to say, re-surprise us. Re-surprises are those gestures and words he repeats over and over, managing to find a way to surprise you again. It’s uncanny.
When we were growing up, neither The Barn or The Peg spoke the words “I love you” to us. Didn’t have to. They kept us in a warm home, they fed us nutritious food, they took us to church, and they scolded us and inflicted corporal punishment (now commonly referred to as “abuse” in circles where love is only shown by saying the words “I love you”). They spent their summers in a tent so we could see the country, and they forfeited their peaceful evenings to the practicing squawks of our musical instruments. They also made us go to bed on time, they refused to choose our friends for us, and they gave us regularly-scheduled chores.
We were Baby Boomers. All the kids on Quincy Avenue had similar home lives. We know, because their parents did the same things to them, right out in the open, just like The Barn and The Peg. Once Allen Chickering’s mom swatted his fanny with every step he took until he got into that house and took that garbage out like she had asked him to umpteen times since supper. Allen lumbered, unaffected by the token “whipping”, grumbling, “I know, I know…” all the way to the kitchen door. It was hilarious – always was when someone else was getting paddled.
Once we were grown, about half of us found the occasion to go into therapy. Remember, we are Baby Boomers, and there is a market out there identifying us as emotionally needy because our parents didn’t say “I love you.” When I did my stint, it struck me that while my parents never said “I love you”, I actually believed they did. My therapist struggled with that notion, not able to get me to understand that I didn’t know what I was talking about. Denial. That was the answer. I was in denial.
In their retirement, The Barn and The Peg had the extra time to tune into Oprah and discover the error of their ways. They had also been the focus of an “I love you” intervention, brought about by those of us who were enlightened and no longer in denial of the horrible upbringing we had. Whatever the cause, they “I love you-ed” us every time we spoke starting in the mid-‘80’s. They never, ever forgot, either. Every phone call, every visit was another chance to proclaim their love for us. It seemed to set them free.
But, old habits die hard with The Barn. He kept doing nice little things, whether we appreciated them or not, because he was accustomed to showing us he loved us, and it didn’t occur to him that he could replace actions with words. He got a Hallmark card program for his computer, and he created cards for every occasion – thank-you cards and birthday cards were his specialty. He sent us cards, he sent the grandchildren cards, he gave the mail carrier cards, his friends in the nursing home, the guys he used to teach with, everyone got cards. I don’t suppose he told all of them he loved them, though. They’d have to read that between the lines, like we once had to.
Christmas was always a time to be re-surprised. The Barn and The Peg wouldn’t buy just any presents; the presents they selected were given after a great deal of thought. Once, for Christmas, The Barn and The Peg gifted me with a lovely set of decorative covered mixing bowls and a matching Dutch oven. They were gorgeous, but impractical – I could tell that the minute I unwrapped the package. Who would use these enameled and flowered mixing bowls, or put that Dutch oven on the stovetop?! Uffda! I kept them in their boxes, slightly annoyed that The Barn and The Peg were so short-sighted, despite them telling me they thought I, whom they perceived as keeping a beautiful home, would enjoy them like no one else they knew.
The Barn is also known as The Breadman. He mastered the art of bread machines, and he spread the wealth of that knowledge. He gave bread to all of us, bread to the grandchildren, to the mail carrier, his friends in Assisted Living, the guys he used to teach with, everyone got bread. Whenever I visit him, lots of people at church tell me about the good bread they’ve received from him. He’ll even make them a second loaf if he thinks the first one didn’t come out just right.
The Barn and I had father-daughter outfits. I’d help him with whatever home improvement project he had going in his workshop, and we’d often need to pick up a part, or some screws, or whatever. We’d put on our khaki shorts, white t-shirts and white Keds, and off we’d go to O’Hara’s Hardware. He didn’t tell me once, not when we were in the workshop, or when we split up to change into our father-daughter outfits, or all the way to O’Hara’s and back that he loved me.
Right after The Peg died, I was visiting The Barn, and he told me his bread machine had broken down. We hopped onto the Information Highway and researched a proper replacement, then went on a hunt to find a Breadman brand bread machine. We didn’t wear matching outfits, but we checked out O’Hara’s, which had moved from the South Side in Ottumwa to down by the train depot. They had two left, and they were cheaper than the review on the Internet! We giggled as we hauled it home and unpacked it.
The next morning The Barn said he was going back to O’Hara’s to get me that last Breadman brand bread machine. He thought we should have father-daughter bread machines, and we could call each other and compare recipes and results. He fared better with The Heavenly Whole Wheat Bread than I. My favorite was The Peg’s Famous Swedish Rye Bread, which she had converted from an old family recipe for use in a bread machine. We had such fun baking bread together, and at the end of each phone call, he’d say, “I sure do love you, Honey.”
“I love you, too, Daddy.”
The Barn and The Peg never had a favorite among their five offspring. They didn’t say “I love you” to any of us. They also boasted they treated us all exactly the same. The Peg once told me she wished they had the childrearing books that our generation enjoyed. If they had, she said, they probably would have tried to individualize their treatment of us a little more. They only had the examples of the generations before them, and so they just wanted us to get perfect attendance in Sunday school and they spanked us when we were naughty. They also made sure we didn’t get everything we wanted, even if they could have afforded to, which they couldn’t.
The Barn got sick one Monday. He called the nurse over from Assisted Living, and she and Brenda from Independent Living called the ambulance. Brenda rode with The Barn, even though she wasn’t supposed to because she isn’t “family”. That held no truck with Brenda – she knew we depended on her. At the hospital, they discovered he’d had his first-ever heart attack and decided to airlift him to Iowa Methodist in Des Moines. My younger sister Mor-Lora (that name is a story for another day) and I dashed to meet him at the ER there.
They admitted him to the ICU/CCU, up on the Third Floor. It was after 6:00 p.m. by then, and we didn’t know how much damage had been done. They wanted someone from the family to stay at the hospital that night, and Mor-Lora needed to run home to get her classroom in order; the immediate future was uncertain. I had T-man with me, and we settled into the family quarters. The Barn, in his usual good spirits, was expressing sincere gratitude to his nurse for the excellent care she was giving him. “You had good training, but it’s more than good training. I can tell you love your job. I’m so lucky you’re my nurse.”
We were all concerned. We gathered in Des Moines from hither and yon – Neil and Judith from Boston, Jeanie from North Carolina, Paul and Carol from Chattanooga, The DeWolfs from Cedar Rapids, grandchildren from Chicago and Seattle. The Barn couldn’t have been more pleased! “Aren’t I lucky?” He sat up in his hospital bed and reveled in our presence. We fussed and cooed over him, and he held our hands and told us how special we were.
Pastor Kister came from First Lutheran in Ottumwa on Friday. He brought Pauline with him, and Harry and Jean Carter came in their own car. Together, twenty of us had communion with The Barn, including two of his great-grandchildren. “Ohhhhh…ohhhhh," he said as each of us entered his room, sometimes in a whisper, sometimes with gusto.
Afterwards, he cupped his hands around his mouth and pointed his words in Paul’s direction. “You’re my favorite,” he mouthed. Then to Neil, in the same clandestine manner, “You’re my favorite.” Then to Jeanie, to me, and to Mor-Lora.
“You’re my favorite.”
“You’re my favorite.”
“You’re my favorite.”
Silly, but we were having fun.
By Saturday, we were all preparing to leave. The worst was behind us, and from the many consultations we had with the cardiologists during the week, it was determined that he would go back to Ottumwa to Vista Woods, the nursing home connected to The Barn’s independent living apartment.
“Now, Kari. You’ll have to come to Ottumwa and stay for three or four days, at least,” he said, jabbing his noontime fork in the air to emphasize the point. “I get awfully tired, so wear your watch and make sure no one stays too long.” Lots of visitors were expected after this near-miss.
“Okay. I’ll see you next week.”
“I sure do love you, Honey.”
“I love you, too, Daddy.”
Jeanie went back to North Carolina, Mor-Lora and I back to our homes in Iowa. The others were scheduled to leave in the next day or two, and what turned out to be a big party in Des Moines was over.
That night, at about 12:45 a.m. on Sunday morning, Carol called. She was sitting with The Barn, holding his hand.
“Kari, Barney just died.”
Why else would anyone call at that hour?
“Are you with him?”
“Yes. He was sleeping. He just put his hand up over his head, like he was greeting someone, and took his last breath.”
“Oh, how peaceful – how beautiful and kind.” He was, indeed, lucky.
“I have to go now and call the others.”
“Thank you, Carol. Thank you for telling me the story.”
The Barn re-surprised us, and he went home. He died on All Saints Day, his favorite day in the Christian calendar.
If you see me shed a tear, it’s because I feel so lucky, that my siblings and I are the lucky ones. The fact that we had such wonderful parents is taking hold of my heart. We weren’t perfect, but they didn’t expect us to be – they wanted us to be the best we could be. They weren’t perfect, yet sometimes we punished them for their imperfections. They loved us all the same, both by their actions and their words.
As for The Barn, we were all his favorite, and he will continue to re-surprise us for the rest of our lives.
That Barn!
Bernard Orius Onerheim, March 18, 1917 – November 5, 2006
Copyright © Kari E.O. Burns December 2006
When we were growing up, neither The Barn or The Peg spoke the words “I love you” to us. Didn’t have to. They kept us in a warm home, they fed us nutritious food, they took us to church, and they scolded us and inflicted corporal punishment (now commonly referred to as “abuse” in circles where love is only shown by saying the words “I love you”). They spent their summers in a tent so we could see the country, and they forfeited their peaceful evenings to the practicing squawks of our musical instruments. They also made us go to bed on time, they refused to choose our friends for us, and they gave us regularly-scheduled chores.
We were Baby Boomers. All the kids on Quincy Avenue had similar home lives. We know, because their parents did the same things to them, right out in the open, just like The Barn and The Peg. Once Allen Chickering’s mom swatted his fanny with every step he took until he got into that house and took that garbage out like she had asked him to umpteen times since supper. Allen lumbered, unaffected by the token “whipping”, grumbling, “I know, I know…” all the way to the kitchen door. It was hilarious – always was when someone else was getting paddled.
Once we were grown, about half of us found the occasion to go into therapy. Remember, we are Baby Boomers, and there is a market out there identifying us as emotionally needy because our parents didn’t say “I love you.” When I did my stint, it struck me that while my parents never said “I love you”, I actually believed they did. My therapist struggled with that notion, not able to get me to understand that I didn’t know what I was talking about. Denial. That was the answer. I was in denial.
In their retirement, The Barn and The Peg had the extra time to tune into Oprah and discover the error of their ways. They had also been the focus of an “I love you” intervention, brought about by those of us who were enlightened and no longer in denial of the horrible upbringing we had. Whatever the cause, they “I love you-ed” us every time we spoke starting in the mid-‘80’s. They never, ever forgot, either. Every phone call, every visit was another chance to proclaim their love for us. It seemed to set them free.
But, old habits die hard with The Barn. He kept doing nice little things, whether we appreciated them or not, because he was accustomed to showing us he loved us, and it didn’t occur to him that he could replace actions with words. He got a Hallmark card program for his computer, and he created cards for every occasion – thank-you cards and birthday cards were his specialty. He sent us cards, he sent the grandchildren cards, he gave the mail carrier cards, his friends in the nursing home, the guys he used to teach with, everyone got cards. I don’t suppose he told all of them he loved them, though. They’d have to read that between the lines, like we once had to.
Christmas was always a time to be re-surprised. The Barn and The Peg wouldn’t buy just any presents; the presents they selected were given after a great deal of thought. Once, for Christmas, The Barn and The Peg gifted me with a lovely set of decorative covered mixing bowls and a matching Dutch oven. They were gorgeous, but impractical – I could tell that the minute I unwrapped the package. Who would use these enameled and flowered mixing bowls, or put that Dutch oven on the stovetop?! Uffda! I kept them in their boxes, slightly annoyed that The Barn and The Peg were so short-sighted, despite them telling me they thought I, whom they perceived as keeping a beautiful home, would enjoy them like no one else they knew.
The Barn is also known as The Breadman. He mastered the art of bread machines, and he spread the wealth of that knowledge. He gave bread to all of us, bread to the grandchildren, to the mail carrier, his friends in Assisted Living, the guys he used to teach with, everyone got bread. Whenever I visit him, lots of people at church tell me about the good bread they’ve received from him. He’ll even make them a second loaf if he thinks the first one didn’t come out just right.
The Barn and I had father-daughter outfits. I’d help him with whatever home improvement project he had going in his workshop, and we’d often need to pick up a part, or some screws, or whatever. We’d put on our khaki shorts, white t-shirts and white Keds, and off we’d go to O’Hara’s Hardware. He didn’t tell me once, not when we were in the workshop, or when we split up to change into our father-daughter outfits, or all the way to O’Hara’s and back that he loved me.
Right after The Peg died, I was visiting The Barn, and he told me his bread machine had broken down. We hopped onto the Information Highway and researched a proper replacement, then went on a hunt to find a Breadman brand bread machine. We didn’t wear matching outfits, but we checked out O’Hara’s, which had moved from the South Side in Ottumwa to down by the train depot. They had two left, and they were cheaper than the review on the Internet! We giggled as we hauled it home and unpacked it.
The next morning The Barn said he was going back to O’Hara’s to get me that last Breadman brand bread machine. He thought we should have father-daughter bread machines, and we could call each other and compare recipes and results. He fared better with The Heavenly Whole Wheat Bread than I. My favorite was The Peg’s Famous Swedish Rye Bread, which she had converted from an old family recipe for use in a bread machine. We had such fun baking bread together, and at the end of each phone call, he’d say, “I sure do love you, Honey.”
“I love you, too, Daddy.”
The Barn and The Peg never had a favorite among their five offspring. They didn’t say “I love you” to any of us. They also boasted they treated us all exactly the same. The Peg once told me she wished they had the childrearing books that our generation enjoyed. If they had, she said, they probably would have tried to individualize their treatment of us a little more. They only had the examples of the generations before them, and so they just wanted us to get perfect attendance in Sunday school and they spanked us when we were naughty. They also made sure we didn’t get everything we wanted, even if they could have afforded to, which they couldn’t.
The Barn got sick one Monday. He called the nurse over from Assisted Living, and she and Brenda from Independent Living called the ambulance. Brenda rode with The Barn, even though she wasn’t supposed to because she isn’t “family”. That held no truck with Brenda – she knew we depended on her. At the hospital, they discovered he’d had his first-ever heart attack and decided to airlift him to Iowa Methodist in Des Moines. My younger sister Mor-Lora (that name is a story for another day) and I dashed to meet him at the ER there.
They admitted him to the ICU/CCU, up on the Third Floor. It was after 6:00 p.m. by then, and we didn’t know how much damage had been done. They wanted someone from the family to stay at the hospital that night, and Mor-Lora needed to run home to get her classroom in order; the immediate future was uncertain. I had T-man with me, and we settled into the family quarters. The Barn, in his usual good spirits, was expressing sincere gratitude to his nurse for the excellent care she was giving him. “You had good training, but it’s more than good training. I can tell you love your job. I’m so lucky you’re my nurse.”
We were all concerned. We gathered in Des Moines from hither and yon – Neil and Judith from Boston, Jeanie from North Carolina, Paul and Carol from Chattanooga, The DeWolfs from Cedar Rapids, grandchildren from Chicago and Seattle. The Barn couldn’t have been more pleased! “Aren’t I lucky?” He sat up in his hospital bed and reveled in our presence. We fussed and cooed over him, and he held our hands and told us how special we were.
Pastor Kister came from First Lutheran in Ottumwa on Friday. He brought Pauline with him, and Harry and Jean Carter came in their own car. Together, twenty of us had communion with The Barn, including two of his great-grandchildren. “Ohhhhh…ohhhhh," he said as each of us entered his room, sometimes in a whisper, sometimes with gusto.
Afterwards, he cupped his hands around his mouth and pointed his words in Paul’s direction. “You’re my favorite,” he mouthed. Then to Neil, in the same clandestine manner, “You’re my favorite.” Then to Jeanie, to me, and to Mor-Lora.
“You’re my favorite.”
“You’re my favorite.”
“You’re my favorite.”
Silly, but we were having fun.
By Saturday, we were all preparing to leave. The worst was behind us, and from the many consultations we had with the cardiologists during the week, it was determined that he would go back to Ottumwa to Vista Woods, the nursing home connected to The Barn’s independent living apartment.
“Now, Kari. You’ll have to come to Ottumwa and stay for three or four days, at least,” he said, jabbing his noontime fork in the air to emphasize the point. “I get awfully tired, so wear your watch and make sure no one stays too long.” Lots of visitors were expected after this near-miss.
“Okay. I’ll see you next week.”
“I sure do love you, Honey.”
“I love you, too, Daddy.”
Jeanie went back to North Carolina, Mor-Lora and I back to our homes in Iowa. The others were scheduled to leave in the next day or two, and what turned out to be a big party in Des Moines was over.
That night, at about 12:45 a.m. on Sunday morning, Carol called. She was sitting with The Barn, holding his hand.
“Kari, Barney just died.”
Why else would anyone call at that hour?
“Are you with him?”
“Yes. He was sleeping. He just put his hand up over his head, like he was greeting someone, and took his last breath.”
“Oh, how peaceful – how beautiful and kind.” He was, indeed, lucky.
“I have to go now and call the others.”
“Thank you, Carol. Thank you for telling me the story.”
The Barn re-surprised us, and he went home. He died on All Saints Day, his favorite day in the Christian calendar.
If you see me shed a tear, it’s because I feel so lucky, that my siblings and I are the lucky ones. The fact that we had such wonderful parents is taking hold of my heart. We weren’t perfect, but they didn’t expect us to be – they wanted us to be the best we could be. They weren’t perfect, yet sometimes we punished them for their imperfections. They loved us all the same, both by their actions and their words.
As for The Barn, we were all his favorite, and he will continue to re-surprise us for the rest of our lives.
That Barn!
Bernard Orius Onerheim, March 18, 1917 – November 5, 2006
Copyright © Kari E.O. Burns December 2006
Her Quiltness and The Times-Picayune
The Peg used to smile as she watched me work, and call me picayunish. I took it as a compliment, which is how it seemed she meant it at the time. Having outgrown the desire to get something done in a hurry, by the time I was out of grammar school I just wanted to do things right. I make functional things, and if they aren’t done right I don’t want to use them. That means I just have to look at my goof-ups over and over again, and I don’t really care to do that. Therefore, since it’s silly to swap my time for something useless, it only made sense to slow down and, you know, be picayunish.
“You’re picayunish,” The Peg would smile in my direction, and I’d beam with pride.
In junior high we had picayune as a vocabulary word. It means “of little value or importance; petty.” I still took it as a compliment, because (in my mind) I didn’t think many people would tend to the smallest of details, nor would many be aware that a whole project could become spoiled with just a few misplaced stitches or a crooked line. Besides, The Peg was always smiling when she called me picayunish. That made it a good thing.
In high school, when I heard there was a newspaper published in New Orleans called The Times-Picayune, I took it to mean that their reporters would ferret out the most integral details of a story so that the reader would be able to form his or her own opinion. As it turns out, they named it after a low-value Spanish coin once used in the South, only one of which was required to purchase a copy of the newspaper.
None of this clarifying information makes any difference to me. I stick with my first impression of just about anything, a condition I call Preconceived Notion Sickness. I proudly point out the “smallest of picayune details” in my work, giving each my full review as every project progresses. I love being picayunish.
A Preconceived Notion Sickness event took place when I was running a bath at The Dot’s this summer. It seemed to take forever to get the water to warm up, so I was forced to wake The Dot and asked if I had to run the “hot” for a long time before it complied. She mumbled something angry that sounded like a cross between “I’m sleeping!” and “Yes!”, so I returned to the bathroom. That water never did get warm, and I had to take a cold bath. I washed my hair, too, which made a mighty uncomfy start to the day.
When she became fully conscious, The Dot told me I had the handle pointed to “cold”. Oh. I was pointing the rounded top of the handle/dial to “hot” instead of the handle itself. I thought that was the way it worked. It never occurred to me that I could have been wrong, opting instead for the only logical explanation: “We’re out of hot water.” As I said, I took a cold bath. And washed my hair. In cold water.You trying being me for awhile. It’s not as easy as I make it look.
I can hold on for years, accepting erroneous “truths”. I still hem “backwards”, because that’s the way it looked to me when I watched The Peg do it. The garment gets hemmed, and since that was the starting goal, it works for me.
I have rewritten countless song lyrics from my youth. You probably remember the popular, Hey, Say Louise! by the Beatles. It goes, “Hey, say Louise! I luh-uh-uh-uh-uhve you! Hey, say Louise, is not enough to show I care!” I’m told some people call it Eight Days a Week. Whatever.
In time, Webster will see it my way, and I have no doubt we’ll see the amended definitions for “picayune” and “picayunish”. They will read:
Pic·a·yune (pĭk'ee-yūn') adj. Precisely and proficiently done. Something made with skill and expertise.
Picayunish (pĭk ee ·yūn'ish) adj. Taking great care and concern to see that something is done just right, and of a quality to endure and be admired for generations.
Time for me to go now. I have to pull the shades up. It’s cloudy today, and I want my houseplants to get some indirect sunlight…
Copyright © Kari E.O. Burns August 2006
“You’re picayunish,” The Peg would smile in my direction, and I’d beam with pride.
In junior high we had picayune as a vocabulary word. It means “of little value or importance; petty.” I still took it as a compliment, because (in my mind) I didn’t think many people would tend to the smallest of details, nor would many be aware that a whole project could become spoiled with just a few misplaced stitches or a crooked line. Besides, The Peg was always smiling when she called me picayunish. That made it a good thing.
In high school, when I heard there was a newspaper published in New Orleans called The Times-Picayune, I took it to mean that their reporters would ferret out the most integral details of a story so that the reader would be able to form his or her own opinion. As it turns out, they named it after a low-value Spanish coin once used in the South, only one of which was required to purchase a copy of the newspaper.
None of this clarifying information makes any difference to me. I stick with my first impression of just about anything, a condition I call Preconceived Notion Sickness. I proudly point out the “smallest of picayune details” in my work, giving each my full review as every project progresses. I love being picayunish.
A Preconceived Notion Sickness event took place when I was running a bath at The Dot’s this summer. It seemed to take forever to get the water to warm up, so I was forced to wake The Dot and asked if I had to run the “hot” for a long time before it complied. She mumbled something angry that sounded like a cross between “I’m sleeping!” and “Yes!”, so I returned to the bathroom. That water never did get warm, and I had to take a cold bath. I washed my hair, too, which made a mighty uncomfy start to the day.
When she became fully conscious, The Dot told me I had the handle pointed to “cold”. Oh. I was pointing the rounded top of the handle/dial to “hot” instead of the handle itself. I thought that was the way it worked. It never occurred to me that I could have been wrong, opting instead for the only logical explanation: “We’re out of hot water.” As I said, I took a cold bath. And washed my hair. In cold water.You trying being me for awhile. It’s not as easy as I make it look.
I can hold on for years, accepting erroneous “truths”. I still hem “backwards”, because that’s the way it looked to me when I watched The Peg do it. The garment gets hemmed, and since that was the starting goal, it works for me.
I have rewritten countless song lyrics from my youth. You probably remember the popular, Hey, Say Louise! by the Beatles. It goes, “Hey, say Louise! I luh-uh-uh-uh-uhve you! Hey, say Louise, is not enough to show I care!” I’m told some people call it Eight Days a Week. Whatever.
In time, Webster will see it my way, and I have no doubt we’ll see the amended definitions for “picayune” and “picayunish”. They will read:
Pic·a·yune (pĭk'ee-yūn') adj. Precisely and proficiently done. Something made with skill and expertise.
Picayunish (pĭk ee ·yūn'ish) adj. Taking great care and concern to see that something is done just right, and of a quality to endure and be admired for generations.
Time for me to go now. I have to pull the shades up. It’s cloudy today, and I want my houseplants to get some indirect sunlight…
Copyright © Kari E.O. Burns August 2006
KEOB
I bet I get twenty-five fill-out-this-survey-and-pass-it-on e-mails every year. I haven’t filled one out since 1997, when the first one hit my inbox, because, frankly, who the heck cares about all this stuff, anyway?
One came in today, and I decided to fill it out and send it on. The accompanying directions say that each person who receives this e-mail must send it on, and send it back to the person who sent it to them. I decided to comply. I wonder who, if anyone, will even read the dang thing, let alone fill it out and send it back to me. In case you’re wondering, here’s what I said:
1. First name? Kari.
2. Were you named after anyone? Kari Solem, a little old Norwegian-born lady who pronounced it “carry”.
3. When did you last cry? It’s hard to keep track – I’m a BIG crybaby.
4. Do you like your handwriting? Yes, when I take my time.
5. What is your favorite lunchmeat? Mesquite-roasted turkey, deli-style, but right now I’m on a hummus-and-pita-bread kick.
6. Kids? 2 – 3 if you count the baby, Hubba.
7. If you were another person, would you be friends with you? Absolutely! I’d be tempted to form a fan club of my admirers!
8. Do you have a journal? No, but I blog. I’m so 21st Century.
9. Do you use sarcasm a lot? I suppose what you really mean is, “Are you a snotty person?” Well, yeah. I suggest you put on the daddy pants and take it like an adult!
10. Do you still have your tonsils? No.
11. Would you bungee jump? I cannot think of a single scenario that would make me think bungee jumping is a good idea. (My sincere apologies to all of those who, before reading this, thought I would die for them.)
12. What is your favorite cereal? Raspberry granola from the Co-op.
13. Do you untie your shoes when you take them off? Not always. Sometimes I have the servants do it for me.
15. What is your favorite ice cream? Peanut butter and dark chocolate.
16. Shoe size: 6-7.
17. What is your favorite color? Although I’m not consciously aware of it, it must be all shades of purple. My dang house is painted purple, for crying out loud.
18. What is your least favorite thing about yourself? When I don’t have enough energy to do all the things I want to do.
19. Who do you miss the most? Morgan & Tad (living), and my mommy (The Peg).
20. Do you want everyone to send this back to you? I’ll be amazed if anyone even reads this.
21. What color pants and shoes are you wearing right now? Very light tan shorts, black spangley flip-flops.
23. What are you listening to right now? The grandfather clock my dad (The Barn) made me, ticking away.
24. If you were a crayon, what color would you be pink/green? Pink – hot pink – with glitter.
25. Favorite smells? Cake baking.
26. Who was the last person you talked to on the phone? Hubba.
27. First thing you notice about people you are attracted to? Simultaneously, their senses of dignity and humor.
28. Do you like the person who sent this to you? Yes!
29. Favorite drink? Lately, it’s been fresh-squeezed limeade.
30. Favorite sport? Quilting.
31. Hair color? White/gray, hidden beneath a lovely blend of light, medium, and dark blonde.
32. Eye color? Hazel.
33. Do you wear contacts? I just started wearing them again more often, but not all the time.
34. Favorite food? Cake Buzz.
35. Last movie you watched? I have no idea, but it could have been ‘O Brother, Where Art Thou” with the Ormords. The Tootsie Chicks are having a film festival, though, so I'll be watching something!
36. What color of shirt are you wearing? Black.
37. Summer or winter? Summer, with the long daylight hours.
38. Hugs or Kisses? Hugs, because you can exchange those with everybody.
39. Favorite dessert? Same as #34.
40. Who is most likely to respond? I’m amazed I’M responding!
41. Least likely to respond? No pressure, gang. Don’t worry about it…
42. What books are you reading? An Ava Gardner biography and a book called What Jesus Meant (which sounds terribly presumptuous, but it turns out it isn’t – in fact, it seems to be exactly what I thought Jesus was saying, which was, among other things, love each other and stop thinking some of our sins make us unsuitable to be preachers and believers – dang hypocrites!).
43. What's on your mouse pad? I don't need to use one, but if I did, I have a nifty one my brother Neil made up for us with all our family’s names on it for our family reunion this summer!
44. What did you watch last night on TV? Court TV, “Power, Privilege, and Justice”. I know. I’m sick.
45. Favorite sounds? The ocean, party/restaurant noises, reggae/R & B/jazz/indie music, and the one I am waiting to hear, “You have just won $1,000,000,000!”
46. Rolling Stones or Beatles? Beatles, but really Ricky Nelson, who died before he had the chance to marry me. (Hubba is cool with this. He's had to live with it for 30 years.)
47. The furthest you have been from home? I don’t know, but I’ve never been off this continent.
48. Do you have a special talent? I make the world's most awesome cakes and quilts, and yet still bear the remarkably uncanny ability to be completely humble about doing both of them.
49. When and where were you born? December 27, 19-none-of-your-dang-business, at St. Joseph Hospital in Ottumwa, Iowa.
50. If you won a round trip ticket to anywhere in the world, where would you go? I don’t care, as long as Hubba can go with me. He is my favorite companion, and it’s never as much fun when he isn't with me.
I can be so wordy.
Copyright © Kari E.O.Burns, August 2006
One came in today, and I decided to fill it out and send it on. The accompanying directions say that each person who receives this e-mail must send it on, and send it back to the person who sent it to them. I decided to comply. I wonder who, if anyone, will even read the dang thing, let alone fill it out and send it back to me. In case you’re wondering, here’s what I said:
1. First name? Kari.
2. Were you named after anyone? Kari Solem, a little old Norwegian-born lady who pronounced it “carry”.
3. When did you last cry? It’s hard to keep track – I’m a BIG crybaby.
4. Do you like your handwriting? Yes, when I take my time.
5. What is your favorite lunchmeat? Mesquite-roasted turkey, deli-style, but right now I’m on a hummus-and-pita-bread kick.
6. Kids? 2 – 3 if you count the baby, Hubba.
7. If you were another person, would you be friends with you? Absolutely! I’d be tempted to form a fan club of my admirers!
8. Do you have a journal? No, but I blog. I’m so 21st Century.
9. Do you use sarcasm a lot? I suppose what you really mean is, “Are you a snotty person?” Well, yeah. I suggest you put on the daddy pants and take it like an adult!
10. Do you still have your tonsils? No.
11. Would you bungee jump? I cannot think of a single scenario that would make me think bungee jumping is a good idea. (My sincere apologies to all of those who, before reading this, thought I would die for them.)
12. What is your favorite cereal? Raspberry granola from the Co-op.
13. Do you untie your shoes when you take them off? Not always. Sometimes I have the servants do it for me.
15. What is your favorite ice cream? Peanut butter and dark chocolate.
16. Shoe size: 6-7.
17. What is your favorite color? Although I’m not consciously aware of it, it must be all shades of purple. My dang house is painted purple, for crying out loud.
18. What is your least favorite thing about yourself? When I don’t have enough energy to do all the things I want to do.
19. Who do you miss the most? Morgan & Tad (living), and my mommy (The Peg).
20. Do you want everyone to send this back to you? I’ll be amazed if anyone even reads this.
21. What color pants and shoes are you wearing right now? Very light tan shorts, black spangley flip-flops.
23. What are you listening to right now? The grandfather clock my dad (The Barn) made me, ticking away.
24. If you were a crayon, what color would you be pink/green? Pink – hot pink – with glitter.
25. Favorite smells? Cake baking.
26. Who was the last person you talked to on the phone? Hubba.
27. First thing you notice about people you are attracted to? Simultaneously, their senses of dignity and humor.
28. Do you like the person who sent this to you? Yes!
29. Favorite drink? Lately, it’s been fresh-squeezed limeade.
30. Favorite sport? Quilting.
31. Hair color? White/gray, hidden beneath a lovely blend of light, medium, and dark blonde.
32. Eye color? Hazel.
33. Do you wear contacts? I just started wearing them again more often, but not all the time.
34. Favorite food? Cake Buzz.
35. Last movie you watched? I have no idea, but it could have been ‘O Brother, Where Art Thou” with the Ormords. The Tootsie Chicks are having a film festival, though, so I'll be watching something!
36. What color of shirt are you wearing? Black.
37. Summer or winter? Summer, with the long daylight hours.
38. Hugs or Kisses? Hugs, because you can exchange those with everybody.
39. Favorite dessert? Same as #34.
40. Who is most likely to respond? I’m amazed I’M responding!
41. Least likely to respond? No pressure, gang. Don’t worry about it…
42. What books are you reading? An Ava Gardner biography and a book called What Jesus Meant (which sounds terribly presumptuous, but it turns out it isn’t – in fact, it seems to be exactly what I thought Jesus was saying, which was, among other things, love each other and stop thinking some of our sins make us unsuitable to be preachers and believers – dang hypocrites!).
43. What's on your mouse pad? I don't need to use one, but if I did, I have a nifty one my brother Neil made up for us with all our family’s names on it for our family reunion this summer!
44. What did you watch last night on TV? Court TV, “Power, Privilege, and Justice”. I know. I’m sick.
45. Favorite sounds? The ocean, party/restaurant noises, reggae/R & B/jazz/indie music, and the one I am waiting to hear, “You have just won $1,000,000,000!”
46. Rolling Stones or Beatles? Beatles, but really Ricky Nelson, who died before he had the chance to marry me. (Hubba is cool with this. He's had to live with it for 30 years.)
47. The furthest you have been from home? I don’t know, but I’ve never been off this continent.
48. Do you have a special talent? I make the world's most awesome cakes and quilts, and yet still bear the remarkably uncanny ability to be completely humble about doing both of them.
49. When and where were you born? December 27, 19-none-of-your-dang-business, at St. Joseph Hospital in Ottumwa, Iowa.
50. If you won a round trip ticket to anywhere in the world, where would you go? I don’t care, as long as Hubba can go with me. He is my favorite companion, and it’s never as much fun when he isn't with me.
I can be so wordy.
Copyright © Kari E.O.Burns, August 2006
Project Visionaries
I fancy myself a project visionary. Sounds grand, doesn’t it?
Project visionaries are people who have more ideas inside their heads, bumping into each other, than they have time to finish them. Being a project visionary requires tools. Being a project visionary means you are never bored or without something to do. Being a project visionary means you have to find ways to separate each project from the other, so that when you stumble upon an unfinished one, you will have enough clues from what’s stored with it to remember the great vision that got it started. Being a project visionary requires dozens of bags and boxes.
My penchant for notions is legendary, but organizing the space around me brings even greater acclaim. I can find something where I left it when my workspace is messy, but I prefer to keep things tucked away in their proper places – notions and threads in little drawers, fabric by color in bigger drawers, stencils in low flat Rubbermaids®, acrylic rulers along a bookcase, and so forth.
When I get one project going, however, I like to keep that all together. If I buy fabric for a quilt, I will prepare it, and then store it in an appropriately-sized box, usually with clear sides, so I will know at a glance what is there. Once the project is started, it will stay in the box, in its various stages of completion, ready for the whim that brings me back to it.
Projects that are on my current to-do radar screen get special treatment. I will look through my assortment of little bags and big bags, and select those that fit the need. It’s fun! Notions go in one little bag, some threads in another, and the larger fabric pieces nestle together with them in the larger, project bag. I usually have three or four project bags sitting in a large basket in my dining room. If I’m on the run, I can grab one and have it along, ready for any free moment during the day.
Hubba has observed this over the years, and he gets it. He appears to have picked up my thready needs by osmosis. What could be interpreted as my quilt-thinking rubbing off on him means, I’ve discovered, that he’s just being thoughtful. He does thoughtful things, devoid of the need to pump up his ego by calling attention to them. If I never notice, he never mentions it, and when I do notice and mention it, he shrugs. I wish I could do that.
For instance, Hubba reads – voraciously. I don’t know how many book clubs he belongs to, but they often send book bags because he’s a member. He donates to the craziest things, too, like Colonial Williamsburg, and he’ll get a bag. Once he ordered some stuff from a website, and he got a bag. These, and other, bags haven’t all come at once, but rather, have appeared over the period of years I’ve been quilting. Funny. We didn’t get so many bags before that.
“I got this in Des Moines. It came with some cologne I got T-Man for Christmas. Can you use it?”
“Yeah! Thanks! It’s perfect!”
We were downtown once, at Ridiculous Days, and Hubba spotted a darling little set of three mesh bags, brightly colored, with zippers. “Could you use these?”
I looked his direction. “Uh, yeah! Are there any more?”
Another time, we were passing a stack of Rubbermaid® boxes. Pointing out a set of typical project-sized container, he asked, “Do these look handy to you?”
“Ohmygosh! I LOVE these!” He put several in the cart, as I speculated on what project would go inside.
Little bags, little boxes. Big bags, big boxes. Notions. Threads. Chatelaines. Knitting needles. Thimbles. Fabric. Clever fabrics, and beads, and buttons, and yarns. Project visionaries need an unlimited supply of places to put their tools, their motivations, their inspirations, their projects, their visions.
Project visionaries can get very full of themselves.
But Hubba is the real visionary, and I know one self-proclaimed project visionary who should recognize that it is love and support freeing up her vision. I wonder, Can I catch that by osmosis?
Thanks for making me your project for thirty years, Hubba. Happy Anniversary, you visionary, you!
Copyright © July 31, 2006 Kari E.O. Burns
Project visionaries are people who have more ideas inside their heads, bumping into each other, than they have time to finish them. Being a project visionary requires tools. Being a project visionary means you are never bored or without something to do. Being a project visionary means you have to find ways to separate each project from the other, so that when you stumble upon an unfinished one, you will have enough clues from what’s stored with it to remember the great vision that got it started. Being a project visionary requires dozens of bags and boxes.
My penchant for notions is legendary, but organizing the space around me brings even greater acclaim. I can find something where I left it when my workspace is messy, but I prefer to keep things tucked away in their proper places – notions and threads in little drawers, fabric by color in bigger drawers, stencils in low flat Rubbermaids®, acrylic rulers along a bookcase, and so forth.
When I get one project going, however, I like to keep that all together. If I buy fabric for a quilt, I will prepare it, and then store it in an appropriately-sized box, usually with clear sides, so I will know at a glance what is there. Once the project is started, it will stay in the box, in its various stages of completion, ready for the whim that brings me back to it.
Projects that are on my current to-do radar screen get special treatment. I will look through my assortment of little bags and big bags, and select those that fit the need. It’s fun! Notions go in one little bag, some threads in another, and the larger fabric pieces nestle together with them in the larger, project bag. I usually have three or four project bags sitting in a large basket in my dining room. If I’m on the run, I can grab one and have it along, ready for any free moment during the day.
Hubba has observed this over the years, and he gets it. He appears to have picked up my thready needs by osmosis. What could be interpreted as my quilt-thinking rubbing off on him means, I’ve discovered, that he’s just being thoughtful. He does thoughtful things, devoid of the need to pump up his ego by calling attention to them. If I never notice, he never mentions it, and when I do notice and mention it, he shrugs. I wish I could do that.
For instance, Hubba reads – voraciously. I don’t know how many book clubs he belongs to, but they often send book bags because he’s a member. He donates to the craziest things, too, like Colonial Williamsburg, and he’ll get a bag. Once he ordered some stuff from a website, and he got a bag. These, and other, bags haven’t all come at once, but rather, have appeared over the period of years I’ve been quilting. Funny. We didn’t get so many bags before that.
“I got this in Des Moines. It came with some cologne I got T-Man for Christmas. Can you use it?”
“Yeah! Thanks! It’s perfect!”
We were downtown once, at Ridiculous Days, and Hubba spotted a darling little set of three mesh bags, brightly colored, with zippers. “Could you use these?”
I looked his direction. “Uh, yeah! Are there any more?”
Another time, we were passing a stack of Rubbermaid® boxes. Pointing out a set of typical project-sized container, he asked, “Do these look handy to you?”
“Ohmygosh! I LOVE these!” He put several in the cart, as I speculated on what project would go inside.
Little bags, little boxes. Big bags, big boxes. Notions. Threads. Chatelaines. Knitting needles. Thimbles. Fabric. Clever fabrics, and beads, and buttons, and yarns. Project visionaries need an unlimited supply of places to put their tools, their motivations, their inspirations, their projects, their visions.
Project visionaries can get very full of themselves.
But Hubba is the real visionary, and I know one self-proclaimed project visionary who should recognize that it is love and support freeing up her vision. I wonder, Can I catch that by osmosis?
Thanks for making me your project for thirty years, Hubba. Happy Anniversary, you visionary, you!
Copyright © July 31, 2006 Kari E.O. Burns
Summer in Town
Back in the day, a group called The Lovin’ Spoonful recorded a tune called Summer in the City. I know all the words to the song, because summer is precious when you live where there is winter. The farther north you live in the Midwest, the more you appreciate summer.
In Southeast Iowa and Missouri there are four complete seasons every year. People there have fall and spring wardrobes, because there is enough time during the fall and the spring to actually wear them. In Northeast Iowa and Minnesota, we adjust by adding or removing a sweater on those days that feel either warmer or nippier in the afternoon than they were in the morning. The concept of heavy sweatshirts or sweaters worn with a pair of shorts demonstrates the schizophrenic temperature patterns unique to the Upper Midwest.
In the rural Midwest, things don’t get lazy in the summer. Unless one is a pre-schooler, the chances of grabbing a little kick-back time diminish rapidly, just before the switch to daylight savings time. By the time school lets out, country folk are in full swing. Things don’t let up for the 4-H-ers until after the county fair, and for some, not until after the state fair, an event which also heralds in another school year. We are talking about busy and happy summer memories. “Work” is a relative term, and productive work from the heart and soul explains a farmer’s smile.
Living in small rural communities gives townsfolk an enormous appreciation for all the smiley-work the farmers do. In fact, in 1909, the city of Calmar couldn’t contain itself, and they organized a day to honor the work of the local farmers, and the business people who worked overtime to keep them going. A few years ago, Calmar Farmers’ Days ran a momentary risk of disappearing, but a few Calmar residents recognized how important it was to continue this annual homage. Members of The Calmar Commercial Club breathed new life into the event, and it’s bigger than before. The danger of not celebrating 100 years of Farmers’ Days is behind them. Traditions like these are the glue in small towns. We don’t usually throw out our aging traditions; we re-glue and clamp them.
Summer is busy in town, too, but it’s a different kind of busy. Getting up early and being outdoors releases the soul from its winter hibernation. Cuddling up, which felt so homey and comforting a few months ago, is replaced with joining hands and running outside. Gardens take time, as do fix-up projects, volunteer work on festival committees and summer sports activities, and whatever else we see that needs a helping hand. A group of local artists recently offered a Fairy Home Tour to support PAW (People for Animal Welfare) develop an animal shelter in Winneshiek County. The artists were busy building homes for the diminutive home tour, the organizers getting the whole thing planned, and the supporters took time to be loyal patrons of small town efforts.
In our neighborhood, we look around at ways to share our outdoor freedom. At the fair I ran into one of my across-the-alley neighbors. “My wild flowers have gone, well, wild, this summer, and please come over and take whatever you want. There are plenty for all of us to enjoy.” The neighborhood picnic is coming up, and we’ll have a rare chance relax with familiar faces that usually only exchange a wave and a holler.
This summer has held one unexpected pleasure. It’s kind of a corny little evolution of events that developed mish-mashy, stemming from an unthinkable tragedy. In March, a beautiful 36-year-old wife and mother of four young children, Gloria Ormord, collapsed and died at home in the early morning hours. It was one of those community-stunning occurrences, a healing that takes years to accomplish, though it is never fully done. Both town and country have offered what can be offered. Replacing what has been lost isn’t possible.
I wanted to spend some time doing creative, fun things with Gloria’s daughters. They are lively and precious beyond words, and my empty nest needed some occupants. Coincidentally, another friend commented that she wished her daughter could spend some time with me, because she likes doing the things I do. My friend felt a bit out of water in my arena. Hmmmm. Her daughter is the same age as one of Gloria’s. This is beginning to sound like fun, my emotions told my brain. My brain said it was thinking the same thing.
Our first day resulted in all of us getting matching flip-flops with Tootsie Rolls® on them, and by the end of the day we were calling ourselves “The Tootsie Chicks”. We have grown in size some since that first day, adding a new full-time member and an extended Tootsie Family of six more. Hubba is our mascot – he’s such a good sport, and lets us do all sorts of humiliating Tootsie adornments of him in pink. Please don’t tell him I told you.
The Tootsie Chicks meet once a week. There are no rules. We figure if someone acts up too much, we just won’t pick her up the next time. So far, everyone’s been safe. We make crafts out of our Tootsie Rolls® wrappers, we try to do something nice for other people, and we even made a fairy house for the PAW fundraiser. It’s not all fun, you know. Sometimes it’s crazy fun!
The Lovin’ Spoonful’s song reprieves itself in my head again this year. The words don’t even hold true for rural summer lives, but I sing them anyway. Summer songs make us feel good, and when I get to the lines, “Come-on come-on and dance all night, Despite the heat it'll be alright”, I can delete my winter memories and paste in my summer ones. Summer in town, with the Tootsie Chicks.
Copyright © Kari E.O. Burns July 2006
In Southeast Iowa and Missouri there are four complete seasons every year. People there have fall and spring wardrobes, because there is enough time during the fall and the spring to actually wear them. In Northeast Iowa and Minnesota, we adjust by adding or removing a sweater on those days that feel either warmer or nippier in the afternoon than they were in the morning. The concept of heavy sweatshirts or sweaters worn with a pair of shorts demonstrates the schizophrenic temperature patterns unique to the Upper Midwest.
In the rural Midwest, things don’t get lazy in the summer. Unless one is a pre-schooler, the chances of grabbing a little kick-back time diminish rapidly, just before the switch to daylight savings time. By the time school lets out, country folk are in full swing. Things don’t let up for the 4-H-ers until after the county fair, and for some, not until after the state fair, an event which also heralds in another school year. We are talking about busy and happy summer memories. “Work” is a relative term, and productive work from the heart and soul explains a farmer’s smile.
Living in small rural communities gives townsfolk an enormous appreciation for all the smiley-work the farmers do. In fact, in 1909, the city of Calmar couldn’t contain itself, and they organized a day to honor the work of the local farmers, and the business people who worked overtime to keep them going. A few years ago, Calmar Farmers’ Days ran a momentary risk of disappearing, but a few Calmar residents recognized how important it was to continue this annual homage. Members of The Calmar Commercial Club breathed new life into the event, and it’s bigger than before. The danger of not celebrating 100 years of Farmers’ Days is behind them. Traditions like these are the glue in small towns. We don’t usually throw out our aging traditions; we re-glue and clamp them.
Summer is busy in town, too, but it’s a different kind of busy. Getting up early and being outdoors releases the soul from its winter hibernation. Cuddling up, which felt so homey and comforting a few months ago, is replaced with joining hands and running outside. Gardens take time, as do fix-up projects, volunteer work on festival committees and summer sports activities, and whatever else we see that needs a helping hand. A group of local artists recently offered a Fairy Home Tour to support PAW (People for Animal Welfare) develop an animal shelter in Winneshiek County. The artists were busy building homes for the diminutive home tour, the organizers getting the whole thing planned, and the supporters took time to be loyal patrons of small town efforts.
In our neighborhood, we look around at ways to share our outdoor freedom. At the fair I ran into one of my across-the-alley neighbors. “My wild flowers have gone, well, wild, this summer, and please come over and take whatever you want. There are plenty for all of us to enjoy.” The neighborhood picnic is coming up, and we’ll have a rare chance relax with familiar faces that usually only exchange a wave and a holler.
This summer has held one unexpected pleasure. It’s kind of a corny little evolution of events that developed mish-mashy, stemming from an unthinkable tragedy. In March, a beautiful 36-year-old wife and mother of four young children, Gloria Ormord, collapsed and died at home in the early morning hours. It was one of those community-stunning occurrences, a healing that takes years to accomplish, though it is never fully done. Both town and country have offered what can be offered. Replacing what has been lost isn’t possible.
I wanted to spend some time doing creative, fun things with Gloria’s daughters. They are lively and precious beyond words, and my empty nest needed some occupants. Coincidentally, another friend commented that she wished her daughter could spend some time with me, because she likes doing the things I do. My friend felt a bit out of water in my arena. Hmmmm. Her daughter is the same age as one of Gloria’s. This is beginning to sound like fun, my emotions told my brain. My brain said it was thinking the same thing.
Our first day resulted in all of us getting matching flip-flops with Tootsie Rolls® on them, and by the end of the day we were calling ourselves “The Tootsie Chicks”. We have grown in size some since that first day, adding a new full-time member and an extended Tootsie Family of six more. Hubba is our mascot – he’s such a good sport, and lets us do all sorts of humiliating Tootsie adornments of him in pink. Please don’t tell him I told you.
The Tootsie Chicks meet once a week. There are no rules. We figure if someone acts up too much, we just won’t pick her up the next time. So far, everyone’s been safe. We make crafts out of our Tootsie Rolls® wrappers, we try to do something nice for other people, and we even made a fairy house for the PAW fundraiser. It’s not all fun, you know. Sometimes it’s crazy fun!
The Lovin’ Spoonful’s song reprieves itself in my head again this year. The words don’t even hold true for rural summer lives, but I sing them anyway. Summer songs make us feel good, and when I get to the lines, “Come-on come-on and dance all night, Despite the heat it'll be alright”, I can delete my winter memories and paste in my summer ones. Summer in town, with the Tootsie Chicks.
Copyright © Kari E.O. Burns July 2006
Farmer's Tan
An entire segment of society exists who understand the term “farmer’s tan”. Everyone in the Midwest has a mental picture of a father, uncle, grandfather, or even a favorite guy at church (they don’t wear their seed corn caps on Sunday morning) leap into the frontal lobe, triggering the smile reflex.
Field work begins early in the spring and ends late in the fall. Farm animals need tending year ‘round, and pert’ near everyone keeps their livestock outside and/or in a barn, away from the house. Sorry to sound condescending, Midwesterners, but you know how city folk are. They don’t have a clear picture of farming, and often wonder about things, like do we keep pigs and chickens in our actual homes, even when they aren’t sick.
People who farm are going to get tan, there’s no getting around it. They get tan because they’re outside working, and they don’t even notice. I’m not sure if they put on sun screen, but I bet some of them do now that we know too much sun can either kill us or age us prematurely. Right. Just like some dairy farmers have started drinking skim milk.
You don’t wear shorts and sandals to farm. I’ve seen some of the guys wearing tank tops, but there are no metrosexuals in the country. Farm workers are very, very tan people – tan in places, that is. Their arms are tan from about mid-bicep down, including their hands if they aren’t fencing or baling hay. Their necks are gorgeous copper browns, as are their faces, up to the eyebrows. From there, the Pioneer or John Deere cap protects the farm worker’s head from too much sun, and their eyes from too much glare. Some of them will wear sunglasses – Oakleys – but most of them depend on the brims of their caps.
We’d visit our farming uncles when I was a girl. Uncle Harry never had a full tan on his face. He’d come in every noon for dinner and every evening for lunch (the turned-around names for the town versions of lunch and dinner), get washed up, and leave his hat in the mudroom. His big ol’ white forehead sat right there on top of his eyebrows, as his brown arms reached for the rolls and mashed potatoes. When we’d visit my Uncle Dean, it was the same thing. Uncle Dean sold Pioneer Seed Corn for many years, but he still bore half a pale face.
Farmer’s tans are a staple of rural culture, an understood event that draws no attention. City folk don’t see so many farmer’s tans, so they have a tendency to stop and stare, wondering why those people don’t take their off hats and even out their faces, or their shirts so they can brown up their shoulders and backs a little.
Those of us who live in town, and who believe we are prematurely aging in our fifties, are beginning to make choices. From the mid-1980’s, some of us have used tanning beds to achieve the all-over tan we found irresistible. Do that and you’ll pay, said the dermatologists. Assuming they meant someone else, we carefully timed ourselves as we were “laying a base” in early April. Burns, we heard from the fashion experts, were what caused cancer. Tans just caused premature aging. There, you dermatologists. Harpers did a lot of research to bring us this good news, so what do you know? Besides, who thinks about aging when you aren’t old?
Buddy Pat and I have advanced together through our life stages. Our daughters were born one week apart, and for the first seven years of their lives, that was the only week they weren’t together. Running things past Buddy Pat became second nature to me. We both have plenty of other friends we cherish dearly, but Buddy Pat and I always seemed positioned for the big stuff together. It’s one of those soul-sisterhoods, easy and not at all demanding.
I was talking to Buddy Pat on the phone the other day. We always start out having a regular conversation, exchanging information and catching up. She’s throwing her niece a bridal shower, and she told me her daughter Katie is spending another year teaching in Taiwan. It’s the usual stuff, and with our schedules we don’t get to talk on the phone that often. Without fail, though, one of us says something that cracks the other one up. We don’t mean to, but one of the hallmarks of our friendship is how dang funny we think we are. As I was signing off, I said, “I gotta go now. I’m going to go Fake Bake.”
“Fake Bake? Are you going to a tanning bed at this hour?”
“Naw, it’s a sunless thing,” and I filled her in about how I get this stuff from Kathy at the beauty shop. It’s a sunless tanning product that (get this) doesn’t rub off on your clothes when you sweat. Move over, sliced bread.
“Oh,” says Buddy Pat, “I just use the regular moisturizing lotions that have the sunless tanning stuff in them.”
“Yeah, but doesn’t it rub off on your clothes, like when your neck sweats?”
“I don’t know. I guess I just throw some on my arms and a little on my legs and don’t think about it again.”
“Okay, so what you’re telling me is that you give yourself a farmer’s tan on purpose with your Neutrogena™?”
Time marches on. Instead of being horrified at the prospect of only having tan arms and legs, we find the ease of maintaining that rather attractive. Stick with the farmers, friends. They are way ahead of the rest of us when it comes to self-esteem and common sense.
I think I will put a little bronzer on my forehead, though.
Copyright © Kari E.O. Burns 2006
Field work begins early in the spring and ends late in the fall. Farm animals need tending year ‘round, and pert’ near everyone keeps their livestock outside and/or in a barn, away from the house. Sorry to sound condescending, Midwesterners, but you know how city folk are. They don’t have a clear picture of farming, and often wonder about things, like do we keep pigs and chickens in our actual homes, even when they aren’t sick.
People who farm are going to get tan, there’s no getting around it. They get tan because they’re outside working, and they don’t even notice. I’m not sure if they put on sun screen, but I bet some of them do now that we know too much sun can either kill us or age us prematurely. Right. Just like some dairy farmers have started drinking skim milk.
You don’t wear shorts and sandals to farm. I’ve seen some of the guys wearing tank tops, but there are no metrosexuals in the country. Farm workers are very, very tan people – tan in places, that is. Their arms are tan from about mid-bicep down, including their hands if they aren’t fencing or baling hay. Their necks are gorgeous copper browns, as are their faces, up to the eyebrows. From there, the Pioneer or John Deere cap protects the farm worker’s head from too much sun, and their eyes from too much glare. Some of them will wear sunglasses – Oakleys – but most of them depend on the brims of their caps.
We’d visit our farming uncles when I was a girl. Uncle Harry never had a full tan on his face. He’d come in every noon for dinner and every evening for lunch (the turned-around names for the town versions of lunch and dinner), get washed up, and leave his hat in the mudroom. His big ol’ white forehead sat right there on top of his eyebrows, as his brown arms reached for the rolls and mashed potatoes. When we’d visit my Uncle Dean, it was the same thing. Uncle Dean sold Pioneer Seed Corn for many years, but he still bore half a pale face.
Farmer’s tans are a staple of rural culture, an understood event that draws no attention. City folk don’t see so many farmer’s tans, so they have a tendency to stop and stare, wondering why those people don’t take their off hats and even out their faces, or their shirts so they can brown up their shoulders and backs a little.
Those of us who live in town, and who believe we are prematurely aging in our fifties, are beginning to make choices. From the mid-1980’s, some of us have used tanning beds to achieve the all-over tan we found irresistible. Do that and you’ll pay, said the dermatologists. Assuming they meant someone else, we carefully timed ourselves as we were “laying a base” in early April. Burns, we heard from the fashion experts, were what caused cancer. Tans just caused premature aging. There, you dermatologists. Harpers did a lot of research to bring us this good news, so what do you know? Besides, who thinks about aging when you aren’t old?
Buddy Pat and I have advanced together through our life stages. Our daughters were born one week apart, and for the first seven years of their lives, that was the only week they weren’t together. Running things past Buddy Pat became second nature to me. We both have plenty of other friends we cherish dearly, but Buddy Pat and I always seemed positioned for the big stuff together. It’s one of those soul-sisterhoods, easy and not at all demanding.
I was talking to Buddy Pat on the phone the other day. We always start out having a regular conversation, exchanging information and catching up. She’s throwing her niece a bridal shower, and she told me her daughter Katie is spending another year teaching in Taiwan. It’s the usual stuff, and with our schedules we don’t get to talk on the phone that often. Without fail, though, one of us says something that cracks the other one up. We don’t mean to, but one of the hallmarks of our friendship is how dang funny we think we are. As I was signing off, I said, “I gotta go now. I’m going to go Fake Bake.”
“Fake Bake? Are you going to a tanning bed at this hour?”
“Naw, it’s a sunless thing,” and I filled her in about how I get this stuff from Kathy at the beauty shop. It’s a sunless tanning product that (get this) doesn’t rub off on your clothes when you sweat. Move over, sliced bread.
“Oh,” says Buddy Pat, “I just use the regular moisturizing lotions that have the sunless tanning stuff in them.”
“Yeah, but doesn’t it rub off on your clothes, like when your neck sweats?”
“I don’t know. I guess I just throw some on my arms and a little on my legs and don’t think about it again.”
“Okay, so what you’re telling me is that you give yourself a farmer’s tan on purpose with your Neutrogena™?”
Time marches on. Instead of being horrified at the prospect of only having tan arms and legs, we find the ease of maintaining that rather attractive. Stick with the farmers, friends. They are way ahead of the rest of us when it comes to self-esteem and common sense.
I think I will put a little bronzer on my forehead, though.
Copyright © Kari E.O. Burns 2006
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