Monthly Archives: November 2009

Tea Time

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The Daily Globe newsroom is filled with 10 desks … eight lining the walls and two stuck in the center of the room. Very rarely will a newsroom visitor see all 10 desks occupied at any one time during the day. We all have our own unique schedules.

My desk is in the back corner, and my nearest neighbor is the Globe‘s online content coordinator, Kari Lucin. She has a fluffy dragon candy dish on her desk that lures many visitors from other departments. Today, she added a returning winter-time feature … a teapot filled with her latest brew.

Kari (along with editor Ryan) are the biggest coffee connoisseurs I know, but Kari also relishes a good cup of tea.

I can handle that.

I’ve never been a fan of coffee. I can tolerate the bitter smell, but not the bitter taste. I figure some day I’ll develop a taste for it, but considering how old I am already, perhaps not.

On the other hand, I do enjoy a good cup of hot tea … the credit goes to my Grandma B.

I can’t recall how young I was when I sipped my first cup of hot tea. It’s probably safe to say there was almost as much milk in my cup as hot tea, and probably a teaspoon of sugar as well.

Each afternoon at 3 p.m., like clockwork, Grandma B. put her teapot on the stovetop in her Smith Avenue house in Worthington. When the whistle blew, she called us to the table for tea and her latest selection of home-baked cookies. I fondly recall dunking her peanut butter cookies into my tea cup and fishing out the bits of cookie with my sugar spoon.

Every time I have a cup of tea, I think of Grandma and our afternoon conversations around the dinner table.

In all the years Grandma drank tea, I never saw her use anything more than the standard tea-filled bags you can buy in bulk boxes. When she died, I think our family found five full boxes … each filled with 100 tea bags … in her storage closet.

At the office today, Kari made her tea the old-fashioned way … using a little tin filled with tea leaves and spices, along with her own tea bags. The orange spice tea was very good and, even though it wasn’t made just like Grandma’s, it was Grandma B. who I was reminded of just the same.

When Harry met Molly

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Since the death of my parents’ dog, Misty, nearly three weeks ago, my dog Molly has been sulking around the family farm like a lost little puppy.

Like a spoiled, yet lost little puppy.

While certainly not a puppy — she’ll be 6 in human years next spring — Molly has taken refuge in a giant cardboard washing machine box my parents set up for her in their garage. The dog house was cleaned right after Misty’s death, but Molly is still uneasy about going inside. She sniffs around the door, walks inside and then comes back out and heads for her own makeshift hut.

The box is pretty cozy by farm dog standards. She has her large, rectangular, fleece-covered doggie pillow to sleep on, and Mom threw in another worn blanket or two for extra comfort.

Molly’s toys are tucked inside her box, and her doggie dishes are just a couple of steps away.

Yes, she has everything she needs right there in the garage … and we found out on Thanksgiving Day that she’s rather protective of her new surroundings.

If dogs could talk, all you would need to do is ask Harry.

Harry is a very handsome, 9-year-old white-colored Lhasa Apso-mix house dog my sister-in-law, nieces and nephews brought home from the shelter a few months ago.

Harry made his first visit to the Buntjer family farm on Thursday, and immediately came face to face with my Black Lab-German Shepherd mix, Molly.

The meeting did not go well, according to those on the scene. Molly was barking, Harry was growling and the humans were screaming.

Lest you are imagining some fur-flying, biting, wrestling match between the two, I’ll just say that Molly marked her territory and Harry stood his ground. There were no visible injuries … at least that I could see.

Injuries to their self-esteem, however, were another matter.

Molly’s jealousy was evident. I don’t think she liked it that Harry was inside the house … a house filled with the aroma of roasting turkey, stuffing, sweet corn and candied yams … and she was stuck in the garage.

When I went outside after dinner, Molly was demanding attention … to the point that she jumped up on me and left her muddy footprints scattered between my shoulders and my knees. So much for going straight to work from the farm!

We walked out to the barn and spent some quality time together, me sitting on a hay bale and her sprawled out at my feet, soaking up a stream of sunlight and a lengthy belly rub.

Upon our return to the garage, Molly headed for her cardboard box and I went into the house.

There stood Harry, waiting for a little attention, too. He sniffed the paw prints Molly had painted on my clothing, licked my fingers and then turned with his wagging tongue and got me in the face. Yech!

After Misty’s death, I started to think that perhaps we should get another dog. Maybe I would get a house dog that I could take to the farm for visits, or my folks could get another dog as a companion for Molly.

After Harry met Molly, however, we’re thinking that perhaps the Buntjer farm will remain a one-dog farm for a while longer.

Just another day at the office

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Everyone knows that an education prepares you for what is to come in life. On Tuesday, I was feeling rather grateful for my ninth through 12th grade agriculture classes with Mr. Mahlberg and Mr. Ryswyk, and the ag courses that followed during my years in college.

Had it not been for those classes and the field trips, I may have been among a few of those touring the new JBS casing building with my hand clasped firmly over my mouth.

While what I witnessed during the tour … processing the small intestines of hogs into what eventually will be used as natural casings for your more expensive varieties of hot dogs and sausages … was perhaps a bit unsettling for some, I found it fascinating.

Chalk it up to being a farm kid, or perhaps more importantly, being the daughter of two very blue-collar workers. My dad put in more than 25 years at Iowa Beef Processors (IBP) when it was in operation in Luverne. My mom worked 17 years at Campbell’s Soup Co., in Worthington, until the plant closed. Both were line workers, meaning they did the work that most people I know today wouldn’t want … no matter how good the pay.

In high school, our ag class toured IBP in Luverne and Campbell’s Soup in Worthington. I waved to my parents as they worked … Dad boxing cuts of beef for shipment out of the plant, and Mom working on the line, pulling meat off the wings as the chickens passed by on little hooks.

We also toured JBS, although I can’t remember what name it was going by back in the late 1980s. In college, I was part of SDSU’s sheep production class that went to Austin to tour a sheep processing facility. I’m not sure that plant is operating anymore, but I remember it because my shoes slipped on the grease-coated steps and I slid about halfway down a stairwell … how embarrassing!

Throughout all of these field trips, I never once felt sick to my stomach. Animal processing is a fact of life. It’s done in the most humane way possible, and it’s necessary if you want to dine on a holiday ham, Thanksgiving turkey or delicious prime rib or steak.

I sometimes wonder why both my parents ended up working in processing facilities. The money was good, for one thing. So was the insurance. Certainly our little hobby farm south of Worthington wasn’t enough to support a family of six, so Dad commuted to Luverne day after day and Mom went to Worthington. For several years, Dad worked days and Mom worked nights. We were a family on the weekends.

I think that’s why, when I was growing up, I was determined to do something more with my life. I wouldn’t say better, because my parents worked darn hard at their jobs … and instilled that work ethic in each of their children.

My parents worked in thankless professions. I wonder if anyone ever told them they did a good job? Probably not. They did their work, it was as simple as that.

Most of our family will gather around the dinner table down on the farm this Thanksgiving Day. We will be thankful to be together and thankful for parents who raised us to work hard and appreciate what we have. I imagine there will be a little sadness too … for my oldest brother Kevin, who is losing his job early in the new year, and for the family members who aren’t there because work got in the way.

Yes, I think this Thanksgiving will be a little bittersweet … hopefully less on the bitter and more on the sweet.

Have a Happy Thanksgiving and enjoy your tryptophan-induced afternoon nap! I’ll be heading into the office to work Thursday afternoon … after the big feast, of course.

Hmm, I wonder if my boss would mind if I brought a pillow along with me?

Let there be light!

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I decorated my Christmas tree this weekend.

I know, I know … it’s not even Thanksgiving yet, but I had a weekend with absolutely nothing to do. That doesn’t happen very often.

Now, I tend to think I’m a fairly organized person. I have all of my Christmas items stored away in one particular closet upstairs. The tree, the village pieces, the snowmen, the ornaments, the wrapping paper and the lights … they are all there, ready to be carried downstairs for a complete cluttering of my living room until such time that I get everything arranged. Or until I scream in frustration and say, "This is good enough!"

My frustration hit its peak about 2 o’clock Sunday afternoon, when I could not find which of the little white lights on my tree had inadvertently been changed out with a red-tipped light, causing the string to blink off and on. (You can read this to mean that I stupidly put the red-tipped light in the string after last Christmas, or that I failed to check all of the lights before putting them on the tree.)

Had the entire set of lights blinked, I might have been OK with it. But I had three strings of the constant light variety, followed by one string of blinking lights, followed by another string of constant light. It looked horrible.

So there I was, laying down next to my tree, rotating the tree stand to look for one tiny, red-tipped light. I turned the tree nearly all the way around without finding the out-of-place bulb, all the while hearing the angel tree-topper rustle above and threaten to fall a second time. Yes, my day wasn’t going well. Fortunately, the angel fell into my hands on its first and only topple.

Anyway, I’d nearly given up hope of finding the culprit that was causing the string of blinking lights when I decided to pull out a light on the strand. Just as the entire string of lights went dark, I noticed the red-tipped bulb taunting me two bulbs over.

I put a clear bulb in its place and ah, what a sight!

By Sunday night, my tree was decorated and the lights were turned off. It won’t get plugged in again until after Thanksgiving.

The Christmas village isn’t up yet, but after the frustration with the tree, I think maybe I’ll leave the village pieces in their boxes in the closet upstairs.

The artifact

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The other day, I met Daily Globe photoguy Brian Korthals in the back alley as he was coming in to work for the day.

"We get to go on an adventure!" I told him. That in itself is code-word for something exciting.

Adventures with BK have included such things as a late night road trip to Brewster to cover the fire at Minnesota Soybean Processors, and a trip to visit the bison on John Bowron’s ranch along the Blue Mounds north of Luverne … a trip that included being chased by a bison!

Our adventure on Tuesday afternoon was a trip out to the Langseth family farm on the eastern shores of Lake Ocheda. I am writing a story for Saturday’s edition of the Daily Globe about shoreline erosion, and I needed BK to take an awesome photo.

When he asked if I’d brought along my boots, I said, "Of course."

They were just the wrong kind of boots. I had thrown my winter lace-ups (which also work well when walking through mildly soupy cattle yards) into the hatchback of my car, but what I should have packed was a pair of knee-high rubber boots.

BK, who apparently is prepared for anything, had not only a pair of tall rubber boots in his car, but a walking stick as well!

Anyway, we arrived at the Langseths and took a little drive up to an area of the shoreline that has some really bad erosion issues. BK’s plan was to walk farther down a walking path for better access to the lakeshore, and I just followed along, soaking up the sunshine and appreciating the serene lake setting.

I followed BK all the way down to the lakeshore access point, stepped over an old, decaying tree trunk, ducked under a tree branch and then stopped in my tracks. The narrow shoreline suddenly ended. I briefly thought about taking off my shoes and hiking up my pant legs. Had it been the middle of July instead of the middle of November, I just might have done that!

Instead, Paul Langseth and I turned back and let BK go on his merry way through the water.

It wasn’t until later that day, after the photo had been taken and we were back in the office, that BK shared with me one of his "finds" while walking along the lakeshore.

The Langseth property was, hundreds of years ago, a Native American settlement grounds. There are lots and lots of artifacts to be found, and BK has done quite a bit of searching there.

Anyway, BK came over to my desk and handed me this little artifact that fit nicely into the palm of my hand.

I looked it over from every angle, thinking that it looked pretty cool.

Now, I don’t know much of anything about hunting for artifacts or the realm of archeology … so I had to ask, "What is it?"

Any guesses?

It is a piece of buffalo tooth … one tooth, with the enamel intact on one side, but not on the other (see the back side photo below).

Now, I’m one of those people who gets squeemish at the sight of a person bleeding, screams bloody murder when I see a snake slither through the grass, gags at the thought of changing the niece’s dirty diaper, and feels like I must join in when a sick kid does the projectile vomit.

So, when BK asked if I’d like to keep the "artifact" as a memento of our Lake Ocheda adventure at the Langseths, I kindly said "No," so as not to hurt his feelings. I then had the sudden urge to go to the restroom and wash my hands … with lots of soap and hot water!

It wasn’t until Wednesday morning that I realized BK left the artifact laying on his desk. A co-worker was using the computer to work on a photo, picked up the buffalo tooth and asked, "What is this?"

"Don’t touch it!" I said, realizing immediately what it was.

She dropped it and grabbed for the hand sanitizer as I explained the artifact. Funny, but once she learned it was a buffalo tooth, she wasn’t nearly as grossed out by it as I was!

I’m still not comfortable touching the thing, but I had to take a couple of pictures of it to post here with my blog for you all to see. And yes, just in case you are wondering, I made another trip to the restroom for a couple of shots of liquid soap and a good scrubbing under the hot water faucet!