A View From Here: Resettling Big Stone County Minnesota

The moon. It's the moon! As can only be seen rising on the wide open prairie horizon.

The next morning, I'm running on ice cleats in between massive banks of snow 20 feet high on the edge of the winding gravel road. It's like running through a glacial tunnel. As I run out of the 'tunnel' a deer bolts out from the other side and runs along the road with me for a few yards before leaving me in the, well what would be dust if it weren't frozen. The deer isn't frantic with fear- maybe worn out from the winter or simply not frightened of me- and visa versa.

Out here in the wild I am reminded of my instincts. Running with the wind at my back, I am hit by a wall of stinging skunk scent. I crane my neck to find the skunk that has to be nearby. I'm reminded that any prey (or predator) could smell me coming long before I got there as the wind blew my scent towards them. Likewise, I would be upon this skunk before I'd notice him. So I run on, alert, and hoping that with 4+ miles under my belt I still have a sprint left in me if needed.

There is the usual hawk in the dead tree in the slough along the roadway. The two o'clock hawk who flies past our dining room window with his partner about the same time every afternoon.

Animal tracks dot the now frozen mud--in addition to the skunks, there's coon, deer, my daughter's and, closer to home, my sons'. I never imagined I'd be intimate with footprints- that they would have a story for me, personally. Can that really be a baby coon already? Is that shimmering turquoise pheasant rooster head alongside the road due to a mink out of hibernation?

And now the geese. They are back- the lovelies. Just a few here and there earlier this week and now, today, by the hundreds. Hopefully soon to be thousands. They are everywhere--flying low and close overhead. Godspeed. The first day we saw them it was cold and the snow and ice were deep. I hoped those geese knew what they were doing. Today, for the first time, I saw some water standing in a field and can now see some dark soil in places.

There is so so so much to be grateful for. These are the days that nostalgia is made from. This place, this farm, my kids dyeing Easter eggs, daughter making homemade peeps, my mom helping clean up behind our creative messes- just like she's done since I was a kid. My husband is healthy and strong a year after his accident.

With each turning there must have been great grief. Each marked an end- some terminal. Like the last mammoth that was felled. Elders recounting to their grandchildren how it was in their day- a time of abundant mammoths. There have been people on this very landscape for more than 10,000+ years. Their remains found and named Brown's Valley Man and Minnesota Woman.

It is -20F this morning. That's not counting the wind chill. And thank G_d the wind is not blowing. It makes me wonder how our Dakota forbearers and forerunners lived and thrived on this land before radiators/central heat.

I don't know, but I imagine that the native people still living here live with the deep grief of seeing their world and culture give way. Prairies- gone. (News last week of another 1.3 million acres of marginal/prairie remnant plowed under between 2006-2011). Language and culture- disappearing. Hanging on through the good souls that take a stand to preserve and protect those traditions.

And so I find myself staving off grief. The grief of the end of a short, hopeful period of our times- of land grant universities and agrarian populism. The end of a people ennobled and civil who once populated this landscape in numbers.

(NOTE: The Land-grant University system was created by President Lincoln in 1862 and established in every state to conduct research (largely agricultural), educate all of the nation's people, and provide outreach to bring practical knowledge and civic structure to every corner of our nation- think the U of M, 4-H and county Extension agents)

This grief is most acute after spending a few days in Rochester MN, which appears rich and thriving compared to where I live. Maybe it is the perspective of age- of aging. I now see and feel the change around me.

Uncle Mick, now in his late 80's, talks about how the many changes he saw in his lifetime brought more comfort and were welcomed. He moved to the Big Stone County farm (he still lives on) with his father, mother, and a couple baby siblings in a horse drawn wagon. They went from farming with horses to tractors. The tractors went from metal wheels to rubber wheels- which were so much less jarring to the body and hurt so much less to ride on. Rural electricity came. A heater that wasn't fueled by corn cobs. Running water. Pesticides helped save a wheat crop from being overrun with weeds.

And so here we are in 2013. Granted- it is a bitterly cold February day when all the land is devoid of all relief and color. Blankets of white and brown. And too cold to do anything but huddle against the dangerous cold. So maybe my thoughts are also huddling as well.

But I have driven many hundreds of miles this week through western Minnesota and the eastern Dakotas. I drive down the Main Streets. I stop along the way. I pray over these streets "Oh Lord- bless them." Because they are dying. Some already dead.

I am watching a culture and a way of life disappear. It was a heyday of the common man. Family farming in the age of enlightenment, science, faith, civility, and Lincoln's land-grant university idealism. It was as close to Thomas Jefferson's dream of America come true- a dream where abundant

"Cultivators of the earth are the most valuable citizens. They are the most vigorous, the most independent, the most virtuous, and they are tied to their country and wedded to its liberty and interests by the most lasting bands."

Should we grieve each passing? The mammoths are gone- never to return. I, for one, miss them. I see their ghosts on this landscape. They would do well today at -20F grazing in the slough grass.

I am bearing witness to the passing of an agrarian country (a populism), the last remnants of which are disappearing. Like many recent cultures, it is not dead. It is still being carried by the few who are still gathering at cafes for coffee at 3pm or 4pm, depending on what time your people had historically milked cows (every 12 hours).

I met this week with a group of men- idealists really- who are grieving over the loss of some of the soul of our land-grant university. The land-grant, an idea so burning and bright and pure and good that it inspires these men to tears even 150 years after its birth.

We have, all of us, benefited from what the land-grant universities brought to this nation, to the common man. My grandma read classic literature in Latin in a one room school house in Dodge County, Minnesota. Thanks to a country school teacher educated at a land-grant university.

This is what I see speeding by my car windows. This is what is keeping me awake on dark, life-threateningly cold Minnesota mornings. That this short run of immigrant farmers is over. It started in earnest in the 1870's, peaked in the 1920's, had its crisis in the 1980's, hung on until 2013, and now with each death of an elder is disappearing.

I remember, as a child, riding in the back of my parents' car down dark country roads in Dodge County. Looking at the lit up barns as the farmers finished their milking. Farms dotted every 80 to 160 acres on those fertile SE Minnesota soils. Those days are gone, most likely never to return.

And these men I met with, these men who believe so fervently in the land-grant mission and the dignity of Every Man, they want us (me) to stop these death throes. They want us/me/the University to provide not just solace and succor to a dying culture, but to revitalize and repurpose it. Take it back to what we remember as a thriving, vital, wholesome and proud way of life.

But the landscape is dark this morning. There are almost no lights in the 360 degree horizon around my open prairie farm. I'm not sure that having a county Extension agent again in Big Stone County would be the answer. Then again, I'm not sure it wouldn't be. And that is not even what they are asking for.

I'm grateful to these men- though they play with fire (or more aptly dying embers). One, a lawyer, threatens to divorce the U of M from its land-grant mantel. This is the highest insult he could seek to inflict upon a University that is not living up to its land-grant expectations. And my gut fear- the constricting in my chest brought on by his intent is......... no one would care..........

Am I nostalgic for a farming era that was hard, dirty, uncomfortable? No. I am nostalgic for a peopled landscape of independent family businesses (farms) every 160 acres that provided a culture of work, faith, family and education. All that- the realization of that past- was made possible in large part due to the land-grant university that informed and educated people in every single corner of this state. Not just through a University education, but through its research and its 'outreach' which was present as part of the fabric of rural communities. Minnesota's land-grant brought civic infrastructure, trained teachers and farmers, and placed agricultural specialists to every single county for the public and common good of ALL.

The "Minnesota Miracle" (1971) wasn't an outcome of any one action or event in our State. It was the natural impact and evoluation of all those rural/farming/land-grant cultures combined. What a great recipe for success! And now we've lost a fair amount of the ingredients. Going. Going. Gone.

I'm sitting among old men who still carry hankies and young guys wiping tears from their faces as a 20-something year old man sings the song he wrote for the farmer dad he lost at age 13. A lament for the father he wishes could take him around the field to plow a couple more times and teach him more about how to run the tractor- the hum of which is like a hymn. And, ultimately, how his faith comforts him in his bereavement. And then you should see the smile and joy that come when our kids, from toddlers to teens, put on a show for us singing and marching and then ending with the call out:

"Sustainability for the Future!
Sustainability for the Future!
We are the Future!"

These talented and unselfconscious kids stand up there with a confident based on scooping up chickens in their arms, milking cows, driving tractors, and in general being a needed and helpful part of running a family farm.

This is the Home Grown music event and these farmers have basically just pulled together a show in a couple days. Poetry, fiddles, harmonica, singers of all ages, a bass and a couple electric guitars. I said to my daughter "what do you think these families do for fun?" "They play music and sing together." So not only do these folks farm their own counter-industrial way, but they are raising their kids differently and in some ways better than I am able. Music- it is just woven, woven, woven into these children. We should all be thankful that these kids are being raised to farm independently and entertain themselves, their families and their communities independently. Here they are singing:

I'll Fly Away, sung by Home Grown Music at the Northern Plains Sustainable Ag Society

What I love about these farmers is that they thrive on being creative, innovative, poetic and spiritual. I was at the Grain Breeding Roundtable break out session for the Northern Plains Sustainable Ag Society's Farm Breeding Club on Saturday morning. Farmer extraordinaire David Podoll placed in our hands a bag of oats that he had been growing out for a dozen plus years. The remarkable part of that bag of oats is that it is a collection of 1200 oat varieties that had been selected by farmers (and more recently agronomists/scientists) over the past 7,000+ years. It's called a landrace and it is a rich, diverse set of genetics. In a time when the gene pool is getting more and more narrow, having a keeper of this range of diversity is invaluable. It is exactly the level of diversity needed to adapt to a changing climate- wetter, dryer, hotter, more erratic.

Let me tell you something about that Grain Breeding Round table, which was attended by farmers, PhD Agronomists, and more. We talked about the usual grain breeding stuff- like what is needed for grains in organic systems, things like a fast growing canopy that can shade out and out compete weeds; more straw/taller plants; and a good root system to withstand drought. But then the tones got hushed. David passed around the 1200 variety mix of oats- which we held in our hands- then we talked about how it feels to run your hand through your harvested crop. What it feels like to have the grains run between your fingers- and how all farmer do that. That there is a spirit in some plants/seed- like a certain variety of flint corn--there is something else there. David says it is the choosing of beauty--not just the needed traits but the beauty that draws us to certain plants and their seeds. There are farmers and plant breeders that, in our long evolution of crops, have put their life force into their plants. And so we have an obligation to make sure it is not lost--that spirit, passion, and (I'll say) the loving attention. An attention that comes from doing one thing and doing it season after season- farming.

Then our conversation turned to not just the loss of genetic diversity, but that greatest tragedy of the last 20-30 years- the loss of knowledge and skills in cropping systems. There is a dependence that grows, after just a few years, on the packaged farm input that expert advisors provide and GPS guided tractors plant .

Do you have a sense of how precarious our 14,000 year evolution of farming has been and on whose shoulders it rests? We have such a fervent belief in progress, science and technology that we forget all the subtle skills and knowing that have successfully brought humans to the year 2013. I believe that there is a balance- that the scientific understanding of the world has brought us tremendous good and prosperity. But not at the expense of losing 100's of generations of built knowledge, skills, and connection with the natural world that got us to this point. Now, I don't think that everyone should be farmers- it is a calling like other callings. Some people who farm were simply never meant to farm- there were people who were thrilled to leave the land and become accountants. But there are also people for whom the connection and work of farming is in their blood- they can feel it in their bones (in a good sense). Those are the folks who attend the NPSAS winter conference.

There was a speaker at the conference that I was surprised to find that I really loved and
enjoyed--Amanda Brumfield, Mrs. North Dakota. Mrs. North Dakota spoke of her experience representing rural women at a national pageant. She is a domestic violence nurse educator who works with children. One story that she told is especially important to repeat. The loss of young adults from our rural communities is something that many people would like to reverse. One day she was talking to a group of 8th graders and asked them to anonymously write down whether or not they would want to back to their small rural town. 18 of the kids said 'no.' Amanda asked the crowd to guess the reasons that the kids gave for not moving back. The crowd shouted out "jobs" "entertainment".... But those weren't the answers--15 of the 18 kids said "gossip" was the reason they wouldn't move back.

Gossip.

The kids she surveyed had seen and heard the adults in their community tear each other apart. Because of that, they wanted to live safe away from prying eyes and harsh tongues- someplace where their foibles, weakness, shortcomings, and mistakes would be anonymous. That is an important message for those of us in small communities. We should demonstrate to our kids, over the supper table and in our conversations, a generosity of spirit towards those around us and a gentleness of words toward our neighbors.

Back to the Home Grown music entertainment and the farmer poet. I'm hoping the folks
at NPSAS can post his poems on their website. Each poem ended with a twist and with the poet a sparkle in his eye and a grin on his face- poems on bulls, -30 degree weather, the intelligent and strong women in his life who understand compassion, beauty and creativity. To which I say "back at'cha farmer poet." And ending with the abundance that comes from a jersey cow milked for a family and neighbors- and how you reach that balance between what you need and what you get.

The price of corn is so high that it can tempt a good man, a farmer, to not only plow up humble farmsteads (see entry below) but to turn over graves and bury the tombstones in pits. In the face of this gold rush, we took 100+ perfectly good, fertile, flat land out of corn production and are put it into pastures. Yeah, I'll tell you that it's not just the neighbors who think we are idiots, but Mike and I sometimes look deep into each other's eyes and say "what the hell are we doing this for?" We could just rent this land out for an exorbitant price and get rich the easy way. No... we have to do this the poor and hard way.

Watering station piped in. Boys chasing backhoe to next station.

Here's where we're going. We are looking to be grass farmers. This is the rainfed, tallgrass prairie after all and so we know that for most of the past 10,000 years this place has done really well as grassland. The plan, as much as it is, is to raise entirely grassfed beef using what is called intensive rotational grazing and probably mob grazing.

I just paused to ask Mike if we'll be doing mob grazing and he said "yes- depending on the weather" (meaning enough rain to green up the paddocks). Without knowing what I was writing about he said "yeah- that will mean more work, but we can get more cattle on per acre." I started laughing at the "more work" comments. And he said- but we can have the kids do that.

Playing on corner posts.

More work. Less money. For what? For an abstract security for us and for our community. What kind of security? Well, if monopolized seed and input companies decide to jack up the price of seed, fertilizer, pesticides then farmers gotta pay. Can't say the same thing about our 28 species pasture mix. What we're hoping (praying) for is that some of those 28 warm and cool season plant species will thrive in the variety of weather events we've seen on this farm. In just the five growing seasons I have lived here we've seen nearly ½ of our farm under flood water and been land locked because our roads were underwater to the extreme drought we're under now where the soil profile is dry as a bone 15 feet down (by the way 'bone dry' is a figure of speech). The land is under remarkable dryness that is startling even to the old timers.

I ask again--what kind of security are we looking for? What kind of advantage? What kind of return on the investment of our time and our money?

Speaking of money- very unMinnesotan of me- the 3.5+ miles of fence and pipe we installed on the farm this fall cost just over $34,000. Now if you add the minimum we could have received for cash rent for that land ($15,000) that comes to a $49,000 cost with $0 return on investment. Investment... Ha! We've divested in all those ephemeral virtual digital spreadsheets that you can see on your computer screen- you know- those things like college funds for our kids, retirement accounts for us, and bank balances in the black. Our plan for our kids' education (off farm) is selling a few of those cows in the pasture each semester to pay tuition.

You need us for security too. Why? Because any good portfolio is diversified. Just ask any Wall Street investment guy and he'll tell you "Diversity is Good." It's their credo. You need stock, bonds, large cap, small cap, international etc... You don't put all your eggs in one basket. Likewise, there is a need for diversity in farming and farmers too. In case things don't go as planned in Algerian oil fields or we find out the Bakken Oil Play costs us 1 barrel of oil to extract 1 barrel of shale oil, you'll be glad there are oases of farmers and food production across the landscape that have a range of skills and practices to jump start the agricultural system. Diversity is good- especially in something as critical as producing food.

Frankly, I think a huge part of the local foods movement is our instinctual knowledge that having food production (real food- not Hot Pockets and Mountain Dew) that is recognizable and understandable and close by is absolutely connected to our well being and maybe even our survival. The global food supply brings untold pleasures (read coffee and cinnamon to name two), but a local food supply bring daily sustenance. I digress.

We are making this counter cyclical investment for another reason -- we want to be the change that we seek in the world. We've put our family on the front line of sustaining happy, healthy, family farms and the rural communities that they are bound up with. Now there are plenty of good folks down this path in front of us- Audrey, Laverne, Richard, Mary Jo and many more. But it sure feels like the front line from my kitchen table.

I'll quote one of my living folk heroes, John Michael Greer, in his recent column

...any meaningful response to the crisis of our time has to begin on the individual level, with changes in our own lives. To say that it should begin there doesn't mean that it should end there; what it does mean is that without the foundation of personal change, neither activism nor community building nor anything else is going to do much. We've already seen what happens when climate activists go around insisting that other people ought to decrease their carbon footprint, while refusing to do so themselves, and the results have not exactly been good [kjd notes: the result is that people don't take climate change seriously and even stop thinking that it is really happening]. Equally, if none of the members of a community are willing to make the changes necessary to decrease their own dependence on a failing industrial system, just what good is the community as a whole supposed to do?

So we are rolling the dice that we need to have a diversified, labor intensive farming system in place so that over time whatever trajectories we are on-- you name it--the end of petroleum era, the consequences of leaving the gold currency standard, a flu pandemic, climate change, the zombie apocalypse (I've trained my children to "repeat after me 'the zombie apocalypse is a metaphor for what happens to humans in the collapse of civilization'") or a dust bowl.

Be the change you hope to see in the world. What do we - what do I--want to see in the world?

• Meadowlarks on my farm


• Green fields for months on end


• Vital, thriving rural communities


• Wholesome food that feeds our bodies without making us fat and feeds our souls in its production


• Animals that thrive in healthy, real environments until they become our food (note: our baby calves dance, jump, run and play through the green grass. And I don't ever recall calves frolicking in dense, dirt feedlots)


• Soils that are protected and regenerated and held in place for generation of farmers to come


• Trees, orchards, windbreaks


• Clean energy


• The sense of pride of meal on your table that comes from your land, your labor and G-d's goodness.


• Raising children who know the value of hard work and actual 'fruits' of their labors


• Needing to pay attention to the natural world every day and throughout the day for the well-being of the animals in your care and for the crops you are tending.

Along with these earnest hopes for my world, I hope that I am gaining the street cred to promote this path. Voluntary simplicity. Voluntary labor. Investment.

Just tonight Mike and I noodled over the numbers to get our John Deere 4440 fixed--a cool $7,000 in repairs. If we fix it we could still get the money back if we needed to, cuz' we could sell if for more than the cost of the repairs. Let me say, there's a lot of that kinda reckoning going on around our farm.

Political activism, community building, and a great many other proposed responses to the crisis of our time are entirely valid and workable approaches if those who pursue them start by making the changes in their own lives they expect other people to make in turn. Lacking that foundation, they go nowhere. It's not even worth arguing any more about what happens when people try to get other people to do the things they won't do themselves; we've had decades of that, it hasn't helped, and it's high time that the obvious lessons get drawn from that fact. (John Michael Greer again)

Something good happened along the way down Hwy 12 and it seems like a good time to tell a happy tale. It may not be widely known, but I have a penchant for rural food access and a love of rural grocery stores. So I make it a point to spent 100% of our grocery budget in these mom and pop shops that are the front line of providing healthy food in our small towns.

Julio D at the Quality Family Foods grocery store in Kerkhoven, MN

I stopped in Kerkhoven MN's Quality Family Foods to do some grocery shopping. There was an assortment of locally grown squash varieties near the front door. So I loaded up on them- as well as some fruit, nuts, and crackers. When I checked out I had to pay for the squash separately as that money went directly to the farmer. My mountain of squash came to $13.29. I counted out my dollars and a handful of change and came up with $12.29--one dollar short. I was thinking through my options 1) put one of the squash back 2) ask the clerk to just gimme the squash for $12.29 when the young man behind me said "Ma'am. I can pay for your food."

I turned to look at the young teenage boy in a hoodie buying his Mt. Dew and Doritos. "Really?" I asked him. Here I am - a stranger, a middle class, Scandanavian looking woman in my professional attire-- and this boy was stepping up to buy my family our healthy, local food. I paused- wondering whether accepting this boy's money was the right thing to do. I mean, should I take money from this young guy? Maybe his family needs that food money more than mine.

"Thank you. I would really appreciate that" I said and he handed his money over to the cashier to pay for my food.

"Did you just see that?" I asked the bag boy who was helping me take my groceries to my car. "That kid just bought me - a rich white woman- my groceries." And I used the word rich, because I am rich in that middle class kinda way- with a home, food, car, loving family, interesting and meaningful profession, etc... I grabbed my camera and went back into the store.

"I'm Kathy. That was really kind of you to help pay for my groceries. Can I shake your hand? What's your name?"
"Julio D__", he replied.
I asked him if he'd mind if I took his picture and wrote a little story. He gave me his ok.

I told the few people in the store that I thought this nice young man and his generosity to a stranger said a lot about their little town. I should have said and a lot about the good values that Julio's family had instilled him- kindness, respect and generosity. Values that I find many rural Minnesotans hold in common.

There's been a series on Minnesota Public Radio about how the face of rural Minnesota is changing to include more immigrants. An article on Making Connections Across Ethnic Lines was highlight just the day before. As I took Julio's picture- the blonde teenage girls with him wanted him to look good and said "put down your Doritos!" And when I said that Julio made their town really shine, they coo'ed "oooooh!"

It is a good time to be living in Clinton, Beardsley and Graceville Minnesota. Our small towns, together, won the 2012 Nine-Man State Football Championships. What a tremendous community building experience. What sheer, unadulterated joy if you are willing to just give yourself completely over to the experience of small prairie towns bursting with pride over the collective efforts of its children. Let's just go with that feeling. Hopefully for months and years to come.

The last time one of our three towns won a state championship was the 1926 boys basketball team from Beardsely, MN. So once every three + generations or so we strike upon the ingredients that make for champions. What are the odds that our family would be here to enjoy such good fortune? But here we are. And enjoy we will.

Even the State HS Football League officials were impressed by the turnout of our small communities. If my math was correct, there were about 1,000 people in the stands cheering on CGB. Keep in mind that the total population of our three towns is about 1200 (Clinton 400, Beardsley 225, and Graceville 575).

Among those 1,000 were a number of 'exiles'- the folks that have built their lives elsewhere after growing up among the good people of our prairie towns. A few of the exiles didn't know what the consolidated school districts new colors were (they are blue and silver) as they may have graduated from the town with the green and the gold shamrocks. There were rivalries and even some cultural divides among these small towns.

There was a fair amount of pain that came with the necessity of closing down schools and busing kids across what is now a 50 mile wide school district. Not a choice any of these towns wanted to make. But this win- this collective win- is possible because we brought all of our children together into this one CGB school district not by choice, but by necessity. And after all these years, the old alums of their respective villages are now excited, happy and know the 'new' school colors. "Go Wolverines!!" They all shouted together. All 1,000 of them. A lot of healing took place on Friday. Healing that was decades in the coming. A good thing.

But oh! the breathe taking fun that was to follow the game. We drove the four hours back to our small town. It was night now and the prairie was dark. There were cars and people lined up waiting to wave on the team starting many many miles from home. People from Cyrus (40 miles east), Morris, Chokio, Alberta--wearing parkas and waving at the cars. The Morris, Chokio and Graceville fire departments had their trucks out and were waiting to escort the team the last miles to their hometown. And in Graceville, MN the Case tractor dealership had turned on the blinking lights on all the tractors in the lot. It was a treat to the senses and to the heart.

It was nothing short of thrilling to watch the cold, dark and quiet nighttime prairie come alive with lights, sirens, and people. Watch this: (start at 1:31 to avoid hearing me yell at my kids)

I am going to digress. I'd lived an adventurous life before settling down in Big Stone County. My work as a Soil Scientist has taken me to every continent except Antarctica. I've traveled through war torn Colombia, hitchhiked alone on the Golan Heights of Israel, meditated in the Taj Mahal in India. But it is this adventure- this adventure in farming and rural life - that is my best. It is moving, grasping, heart rending, and exhilarating. It is profound.

And if you take some still, calm moments you will recognize much good in the people around you. I loved senior football player Ethan Chase's talk to the crowd and his teammate at the Welcome Home party back in the high school gym. I liked how he came to say it, as much as what he said, because in his moment of glory Ethan quoted the bus driver. The nameless bus driver. The bus driver told those boys that they were coming home to a very proud community and that they should cherish every moment and those around them. Ethan typifies these good plains people who know that wisdom resides in everyone- that we don't need to look to people of distinction to find truth and inspiration. That it can be found in all of us in our everyday. And so listen here (for the first minute):

Ethan Chase responds to crowd

This morning in church we all gave not just one, but two rounds of applause for the football players sitting in the pews. And after church those strong boys were put to good use hauling the Christmas decorations up the stairs for the ladies to begin decorating for the season.

It started early with taking Alma into Clinton for play practice. The school is doing the musical Oliver!

While Alma was at practice, I headed down to the Harvest Fest at the Apple Ranch on Big Stone Lake. There were lots of friends to talk to, artists and artisans, and apples to be bought. Any U of M students at Food Day at the U? You may have enjoyed those apples on the Regional Partnership's table. Last year I met a woman who raised her own alpaca, spun their wool into yarn, and knit lovely hats and scarves. This year I marveled at Liz Rackl's granite carvings. I couldn't stay as long as I liked because it was time to pick up Alma from play practice and so I headed back to Clinton.

Alma and I had a bit of time to spare before we went to a friend's house and so we stopped to visit Doreen at the Cabin Cafe. We split a homemade caramel roll and I enjoyed a good cup of coffee. People! Go out of your way to eat at The Cabin Cafe- Doreen is a great cook and committed to using healthy food. Organic oatmeal for breakfast and secret recipe pie crusts made with canola oil-- and delicious! Open 7am to 2pm Tuesday - Sunday. Pie on Sunday only.

On the way to our friend's house to help them move, we passed what looked to be 3 or 4 generations of one family combining corn. Alma got a good look at the guys in the combine- and older man with a very old man. Looked like an aging farmer with his own elderly dad bringing in the harvest. What a great touchstone for a farm life and a family on a crisp autumn afternoon.

Alma and I went on to our friends JoAnne and Simon's house- for a fun and sad time helping them move. JoAnne and her family had to move away because the DNR cut her hours as the Big Stone State Park ranger. We need this beautiful state park! We need this young and active family! Just think- the weekend they moved out we lost .1% of the population of the county. So this was not a happy event- but I'm sad to say it is indicative of the state of the county. (Let's change that)

We stayed for sandwiches and apples at JoAnne and Simon's and then off to the big game! Clinton-Graceville-Beardsley had a Saturday afternoon football game. Met the rest of the family there and we all stood with hands on heart as the Star Spangled Banner was played by the school band.

An hour later I was cold and warming up in my car. Check out the great view of the game with a fieldside parking spot! And me- after my gushing thrill of football post a few weeks ago- now reading the Energy Bulletin on my cell phone.

At last back home to hang out, process tomatoes, and cook up a batch of ham and veggy soup. This tomato squisher/de-seeder is the best invention EVER! We make great seedless sauce in no time. What's more, the chickens get the seeds and the tomato skins and think of all the healthy nutrients there- not a bit wasted.

This takes some time and makes a big mess. So got the whole family involved including in the clean up, which made for some crabby moments. The sun was going down in the west.

As the tomato sauced cooked down and the ham and veggies stewed- I had a few moments to myself.

Dinner together:

And upstairs to bed- but first a couple games of hangman.

I pulled over. Pointed my car north. Stopped. Cried. Pointed my car west. And went back home to take care of my husband and kids.

Pretty simple equation right? Family emergency - work= Taking care of the right thing at the right time.

And it was absolutely the right decision. But it was not without some internal struggle. I am always reluctant to take the "non-work" option, even when it is without a doubt the right option to take.

I wasn't raised Catholic, but know of the seven deadly sins through our cultural lexicon. Surely, I thought, overwork would be one of those 7 sins. I thought I would find some strictures about not putting work above all else on the list, which I now know reads: lust, gluttony, greed, sloth, wrath, envy and pride. Unfortunately, I also learned that the Roman Catholic virtue that 'remediates' (my word- not theirs) the sin of sloth is "diligence" or the Latin equivalent "Industria." That actually sounds a lot like the virtue is work and the other side of the equation, well..., is a deadly sin. Oh good Lord.

My father-in-law (FIL), David, is a second generation American--his grandpa and grandma hailing from Denmark and Norway. Part of my heritage is as a 3rd generation American. When I called my birthmom to ask just now (we're friends), she said that my great-grandma was two of the four children that survived the crossing from Norway to America. One was buried at sea- the other buried on land they think.

I'm guessing it was the most "industrious" and probably desperate immigrants who got on those boats heading west to America. Hard work- hard scrabble- good years- bad years- make hay while the sun shines- droughts- dust bowl- dreams- and a farm. That has to imprint on one's being and through the generations. This is no work born out of ambition or ego- this is the desperate work needed to put your children to bed under a blanket and with food in their stomachs. This is the work needed to see those you love survive.

My FIL was a dairy farmer no less, until a few years ago. As hard working breed of farmers as there's ever been. Especially the way that David and Jean did it- on their own. A family farm. Just a couple days before the heart attack that landed David in the hospital he was helping a family friend, a widow, get her house painted before the winter. Industria is a virtue; but not entirely.

It's my opinion that there is a lot of modern Western drama and even fake dilemmas about our overworked and strained lives. It is born of a luxury and privilege to even consider. And yet, it is an age old issue that humans have grappled with throughout the millennia. How do I know? Well, I look to an ancient book of wisdom that tells humans that they need to rest on the 7th day. Even the land is given over to rest in fallow the 7th year. I am a person of faith and intellect, who some days is weary, heavy laden. And within weariness I try to remember that we are sentient and spiritual creatures who are meant to be, and who are, so much more than our life's work.

Those hard working ancestors and immigrants who proceeded all of us to this time and place worked hard to survive and their work secured a more comfortable present for many, though not all, of those who may read this. I made the right decision to turn back west and to abandon my place of employment in order to return to my farm and family. My family will remember and benefit from my attention for generations to come.