Monthly Archives: May 2011

Hyperated and Dehyperated

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With the unofficial start of summer upon us, the Buntjer family farm is playing host to grandchildren. This weekend it is the 3-year-old and two 5-year-olds who my parents and I must keep entertained.

Actually, I think it is the kids who are entertaining us.

Despite a foggy start to the day, the weather forecasters said the sun was going to shine. So, Dad and I loaded up the two five-year-olds Saturday and drove to the lake with our fishing poles and bait.

Nearly the entire drive there – and back – the kiddos sang, “Jesus Loves Me,” over and over … and over again. (It sounded pretty good in unison!) Even when we made a pit stop at a gas station, little Reece could be heard belting out the words while he visited the restroom. I stood outside the door, watching as people walked by with a smile on their face.

Little boys singing loudly in a restroom do that to people!

Reece is just a smiley little guy – he always has been – but he was extra happy on Saturday because he caught the biggest fish at the lake. After rubbing it in a bit too much, I told him not to brag. He asked me what that meant, and all I could do was smile.

As we continued on our journey home, Reece said from the back seat, “I’m gonna be hyperated now!”

When I asked why, he said, “Cuz I’m drinking my second can of pop!”

(Note to his mother here … it was sugar-free, caffeine-free pop. I didn’t explain it to him.)

As I shared the story with Mom and a couple other nieces at the farm Saturday night, they laughed over Reece’s “hyperated” terminology.

Then Reece piped up, “Do you know what happens when you don’t drink enough water?

“You get dehyperated!”

I can hardly wait to see what new words I will learn today and Monday!

Farm visits and fish wishes

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By the time I’d started my fifth load of laundry on Saturday, I began to reflect on what led up to such a monumental pile of one person’s dirty clothes.

Three times last week I had to drive home in the middle of the day to change clothes — once in preparation for a walk through a field, once after walking through fields and getting my jeans caked in mud (no, I didn’t fall!), and once to change shoes and socks after sinking through a crust of manure-tinged soil.

Memories of all three of the excursions still bring a smile to my face — especially that last one. That was the day I left my boots in the hatchback and nearly lost a shoe on the Feikema farm north of Luverne. Cattle farmer Mike graciously smiled … there was no ridicule about wearing “girly shoes” on a farm in springtime, which I appreciated immensely!

In what had to be the best stretch of days all spring, I was glad to get away from behind my office desk and take off in my mobile office, equipped with Greta Garmin, a camera with two lenses, notebooks, pens and my cell phone.

The cell phone came in handy when Greta Garmin claimed 170th Street at Luverne didn’t exist. (I’d say something about technology here, but since the cell phone came to my rescue, I’d better not.)

It wasn’t the first time Greta failed me — and it probably won’t be the last.

Little more than a week ago, Greta tried to direct me and my carload of passengers into a lake somewhere outside of Park Rapids. Certainly, it wasn’t the address to the hostel at Itasca State Park, where our latest U-Lead Advisory Academy session was to be.

Greta wasn’t the only one leading members of our group astray. At least three other drivers of carpools were taken down the same beautiful back-country road. Somewhere, a GPS programmer is snickering, I’m sure.

Anyway, I haven’t had time to blog about my excursion with U-Lead to the headwaters of the Mississippi River — apparently because I’m too busy changing clothes and doing laundry!

The three-day adventure, our last lengthier U-Lead session, included two nights at the Headwaters Hostel in Itasca State Park, multiple leadership sessions at the Jacob Brower Visitor Center and a trip to the Red Lake Nation.

While I had visited Itasca State Park once before, the trip to Red Lake was a new adventure. We visited the town of Red Lake (home to the basketball team that has faced the maroon and gold of Ellsworth in state playoffs in recent years), and toured a wild rice packaging facility, spoke with community leaders about health and nutrition on the reservation, and visited the Red Lake Nation Fisheries.

The fisheries stop was my favorite. We saw hundreds of fish — perch, whitefish, walleye and northern pike — being filleted, packed in ice and prepped for shipping. It’s one of the largest industries on the reservation, with all of the fish netted from Lower Red Lake.

The daily catch for the fisheries averages about 4,000 perch, 2,000 walleye and 2,000 northern pike. Fishing on Lower Red Lake reopened two years ago after it had been closed for a decade.

As you can imagine, I was ogling the walleyes and wishing I could be so lucky as to catch just one this fishing season. That’s all I ask for — just one good keeper.

I wonder if Greta Garmin could help direct me to the appropriate lake … when I’m finished with my laundry.

It’s a dog’s life

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It took only a few days for the U.S. 59/MN 60 detour to claim the life of one of our black farm cats. I suppose she should have stayed in the barn rather than follow her instinct to find varmints along the once quieter country road south of Worthington.

My parents had been dreading the detour, and now that it’s in place, they still dread it. Cars, trucks, motorcycles, livestock trailers, grain trucks and lots of semis travel past their driveway at all hours of the day and night.

The increase in traffic has had quite a puzzling effect on my Molly. The 7-year-old Lab has become even more territorial – barking at trucks as they drive by and, in a few instances in the last week, attempting to chase them as they pass in front of the family farm.

It’s not good news … I know it, and my parents know it.

I was called out to the farm tonight, foregoing my first grilling attempt of the season, to figure out a way to solve the doggie dilemma.

Mom does not want to witness a pooch fatality – and equally as difficult, she does not want to have to call me to deliver any such news. We’ve been through this before, and my hysterics over the telephone were no comfort to either one of us.

So, I drove out to the farm tonight and fitted Molly with her “Best Friend” collar and gathered up the two, 25-foot-long tie chains that haven’t been used since my little girl was a puppy.

She didn’t like the chains then, and she probably won’t like them any more now, but it’s for her own safety. When she’s not in the house, or in the garage, or following her adoptive grandparents to the barn, she is to be on the leash.

I’m sure it will be a learning process for all three of them. My dad already feels bad about having to “tie her up.”

Mom told me tonight that Molly never used to follow them when they mowed the lawn, but the two times the mower has been out this spring, she’s been tagging along – all the way down to the end of the driveway. That’s when she gets into trouble.

Apparently Molly thinks she needs to protect my parents from all those nasty vehicles whizzing by.

Last week, a kind semi driver started honking the horn as he came down the hill because Molly was standing in the middle of the road. Today, another kind semi driver did the same thing … because Molly was doing the same thing. Today, there was a stern scolding and a “time-out” inside the garage. Then Molly gave my mom the sad puppy dog look – yes, she does that!

The punishment of being locked indoors suddenly didn’t seem so bad when she won her way into my mom’s heart and was invited in the house for a nap on her rug in the living room.

I’m guessing the rug is going to get used more by Molly between now and November than that dog collar will. Nevertheless, the tie chain is now attached to the clothesline pole – surrounded by adequate sunshine, shade and shelter.

Yes, she has the dog’s life … no matter how rough it must be some days.

You can’t take it with you

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Since my Grandma Elizabeth moved into a new, smaller apartment a couple of months ago, my mom has slowly been bringing home more and more of the items saved from a life long lived.

In one car load came 10 complete sets of embroidered dish towels – enough for each one of Grandma’s great-grandchildren on the Buntjer side – along with several small pieces of glassware and a pocket watch that once belonged to Grandpa. In all, Grandma had 31 completed sets of dish towels she’d embroidered – more than enough to distribute among all of her great-grandkids.

A framed hardanger piece I made several years ago was also brought home, along with the cross-stitched Footprints in the Sand piece I gave Grandma when she moved into Willmar from the farm a dozen years ago. Both have since found a place on my walls to enjoy.

Mom and I spent a couple of days with Grandma last weekend, reminiscing with her about the “good old days” as we sorted through three large boxes of family photographs. I finally saw a picture of my Great-Grandpa Miller – his wedding photo no less – and decided a couple of my Kohls cousins carried his resemblance.

On Sunday, Mom and her brothers divided up the images and carried them off to their own homes. We brought a box back with us, along with a bag filled with letters Grandma had saved from family and friends over the years.

Though Mom was determined to toss the letters, I was more reluctant. This is Grandma’s life … we just can’t toss these things away.

Then again, I’m not quite the saver my Grandma – or my mom – are, for that matter. I keep Christmas cards for one year. When Christmas rolls around, I pull my card holder out of the closet, empty its contents into the recycling bin and start my collection over.

Birthday cards have a much shorter life span in my house, though I’m pretty sure I’ve never tossed a thank-you note.

All of the purging of Grandma’s things has pushed my parents into a purging mode of their own. The day before I left on Honor Flight, they hauled a pick-up load of stuff into town that belonged to me … an entire pick-up load. By the time I met them at my house over my lunch hour, they had already unloaded everything – splitting up the items between my basement and living room. (I think they were afraid I wouldn’t let them unload some of the items!)

I had no time to sort through the mess before the trip, and for the week after I got back home, I was still too busy to deal with it. My house was an absolute disaster area and I got real tired of seeing bags of dolls, stepping around my Barbie Jeep (although I was glad to see it still existed!) and wondering what in the world to do with the 4-foot-tall metal child’s stove dropped off on my basement floor. More than likely they will all end up on a garage sale since I have no children of my own to pass them on to.

Aside from the dolls, stuffed animals, kitchen set and child’s dishes, my folks dropped off a bag filled with school papers Mom apparently couldn’t bear to part with.

There were writing tests (my teacher was quite the stickler for penmanship), spelling tests, math quizzes and just general school work. It was evident that at one time, my life revolved around Cs, Ss and Ns … commendable, satisfactory and non-satisfactory.

I haven’t found enough time to go through the whole stash yet, but you can imagine where those papers are going once I’ve finished looking through them. Yes, Mom will probably be disappointed that she hung onto them for 30-plus years, only to see me toss them into the recycling bin in one swift move.

While it was an easy decision to sell the toys and toss the papers, another “gift” the folks delivered that day was a baggie filled with all of the cards they received congratulating them on the arrival of their baby girl. Oh boy, now I’m in a quandary … do I keep them, or toss them.

Mom said I should keep them, considering I lost my baby book (Misplaced would be a better word, but until I dig through all my totes and tear the house apart, Mom will say I lost it.)

Alright, so I’ll hang onto the cards until I find the book. What good will it do anyway? Some day when I’m gone, some poor niece or nephew is going to look through it and toss it in the garbage and I won’t mind. Now, if one of my treasured, hand-stitched needlework pieces to be passed on to the kids ever ends up on a household sale, I might just roll over in my grave.

With Honor

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Awesome. Amazing. Wonderful. Outstanding.

I feel like I’ve been saying those words a lot these past few days as friends, family and co-workers have asked me about my travels with the World War II veterans last Friday and Saturday on Honor Flight Southwest Minnesota’s third flight.

To put into words what this trip has meant to them — and what it has meant to me to see it through their eyes — is difficult, even for a writer!

If I’m not getting goose bumps about the memories, I’m getting choked up because I miss the smiles, the hugs and the stories from my World War II heroes.

After returning from the inaugural flight a year ago, I called the experience the trip of a lifetime. Now I’m wondering if it’s OK for me to say I’ve had two trips of a lifetime.

Since returning from our journey, Aaron Hagen has been busy editing photos and my fingers have been tapping away at the keyboard, writing stories for our special 16-page, full-color Honor Flight edition that will be published with Saturday’s Daily Globe.

I’m excited for our readers to finally get a chance to learn more about some of the wonderful men and women who were our honored guests on this flight. The trip would not have been possible without the generosity of people across southwest Minnesota.

When you stand face to face with a veteran and see the tears in their eyes and the bounce in their step — all because of two full days of touring war memorials, getting countless hugs, handshakes and accolades — it makes any donation you can give to Honor Flight well worth it.

Even before the third flight became a reality, there was talk of possibly taking a fourth flight of World War II veterans out to Washington, D.C., to view their memorial.

At this time, it’s uncertain whether that will happen. In reality, we need to get more buy-in from communities outside of our immediate area to help sponsor veterans for the flight.

We also need to know if there are still World War II veterans here in southwest Minnesota and northwest Iowa who want to make the trip.

I know of at least two veterans — from communities just 20 minutes down the road — who are still hoping to go on Honor Flight.

I would encourage any World War II veteran who would be interested in experiencing your own “trip of a lifetime” to call and request an application or more information.

At the same time, any veteran who has a child, grandchild or other relative who wants to accompany them on the flight as a guardian, they need to get their name on the list. Approximately 50 guardians are needed for each flight, and the first to apply get first choice if and when a fourth flight is scheduled.

“You aren’t committing yourself by submitting an application,” said Jane Lanphere, Luverne Area Chamber director and coordinator of the Honor Flight applications for veterans and guardians. Jane is available to help answer your questions and send you an application. Just give her a call at (507) 283-4061.