A (grand) mother’s love

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I left the farm Wednesday night with a ring on my finger, a locket dangling from my neck and a small plastic bag containing yellowed news clippings and a partially-completed book I’d given to Grandma Elizabeth more than a dozen years ago to “tell me her memories.”

I laughed at the calendar entry on Jan. 24 where, when asked to share the naughtiest thing she’d ever done, Gram wrote, “Too many to remember.”

Then the tears came when, on the back of a Farm Bleat blog, Gram noted that she needed to buy a birthday card for her oldest and only daughter, my mom, and then, in shaky handwriting, “Ask Lorna what date she has birthday? June 19th, I think.” (She had the date right, by the way.)

Gram will be 97 in August, but year 96 has been one of challenges so great, I fear it has crushed the spirit of this loving matriarch — this hardworking, strong-willed daughter of German immigrants.

Nearly eight weeks ago, Gram fell and broke her hip. A woman who had never had a broken bone in her life was suddenly thrust into a new way of living. Gram, the one who helped me weigh lambs in an old wash tub so I could get my 4-H and FFA records completed in high school, was now the helpless one.

During those mid-March days in a downtown Minneapolis hospital, Gram alternated between sleep and wondering where she was.

“Julie, this isn’t my bed,” she’d say. “Julie, this doesn’t look like my room.”

She’d been through so much, and with a steady stream of pain killers her confusion was understandable. Her short-term memory has been a concern in recent years. And yet, I struggle to accept it.

This was the same woman who returned to her ancestral homeland in Germany in her 60s to finally meet the cousins she had corresponded with for years; the same woman who could read, speak and write in German, and yet, had just an eighth grade education. (In the hospital, she told me how her own Grandma would scold her for speaking English at home.)

Back to the memory book, on April 3. The question: “What did you want to be when you grew up?”

Gram’s answer: “A teacher or a nurse, which I was to my children.”

Not just to her children, I thought, as my tears flowed once more.

In April 1978, Gram and Gramps stayed with us four kids for a while when my dad was in the hospital. I had the chicken pox and Gram took care of me. I can still see her hanging clothes on the line and telling me not to come outside. A typical kid with an inherited, strong-willed German temperament, I taunted her rules by dangling from the screen door. I’d push myself outdoors to inhale the fresh spring air, yet not touch my feet on the ground. In my mind, I wasn’t technically outside unless my feet hit the pavement. Gram still remembers those days and can smile about them now. I’m pretty sure she wasn’t smiling with me at the time.

In January 1994, Gram traveled with me to Spearfish, S.D., for my first interview in search of a “real job” in journalism. My folks didn’t want me traveling that far alone, and Gram had never seen the Black Hills. We made a few days out of the excursion in that pre-Garmin era, with Gram reading the map and me driving her to Mt. Rushmore, Crazy Horse and through the Badlands. Naturally, we had to stop at Wall Drug. It was our only vacation together, just grandmother and granddaughter.

There are so many more memories I could share about Grandma Elizabeth — and my Grandma Hattie, too. She left us 22 years ago last month.

A few weeks ago, my folks and my mom’s siblings cleared out Gram’s apartment in an assisted living facility. She’s now settled in the nursing home, getting used to new surroundings as her kids sift through the objects that made her house a home. Photographs, jewelry boxes, quilts, knick-knacks and furniture have been dispersed.

As I fingered through the necklaces, brooches, earrings and rings Mom brought back to the farm, I picked out two pieces. The locket, silver in color with an engraved “E” on the front, will join the gold-colored locket that came from Grandma Hattie’s collection, engraved on the back with, “For your loving care.” The ring, a piece I don’t recall seeing Gram ever wear, will serve as a reminder that despite our differences in appearance — she the petite woman and me, far from it — we have the same size ring finger.

I haven’t been able to visit Gram since she was released from the hospital, but that will change on Sunday when the family gathers to celebrate Mother’s Day in Kandiyohi County.

I cherish each day I have with her, and if nothing else, I hope this blog encourages you to remember your matriarch this day and every day. There are no guarantees in life, but thank God for the memories of moms.

I fought the tree and the tree won

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You know those safety messages that flood the media during the spring planting and fall harvest seasons? Farmers get in a hurry to put the crop in the ground after the snow melts and then get the crop in the bins before the snow flies again. They sometimes forget that cutting corners can lead to injury.

Well, the same can be said for clearing away tree limbs and cleaning up branches after that awful ice storm left tree debris on farm fields, across field driveways and on top of pasture fences.

I spent much of the day Saturday pulling downed limbs with the four-wheeler at the family farm. By the end of the day it looked like we’d made very little progress —the big picture is still a bit too overwhelming.

A more telling picture of the work accomplished might be better shown by looking at my arms. They look like I’ve been in a fight with a sharp-clawed farm cat.

I was poked and scraped and practically mauled by tree limbs, and the glorious sunshine left me with something worse than a farmer’s tan — a farmer’s tan that ends just above the wrists because of the fashionable brown Jersey gloves protecting my hands. Oh well, the sunburn has already started to fade, making the lines much less noticeable; and my injuries could have been much worse.

Still, I took my share of dares with the trees.

At one point, I’d positioned the four-wheeler underneath and slightly west of a dangling tree limb on the back side of the grove. I took the ATV out of gear (good safety habit), stood up and yanked on a branch in a game not unlike tug-of-war. I pulled, the tree cracked, I pulled some more and the tree cracked some more … and then it went boom. It didn’t put any cracks in the plastic fender of the four-wheeler, but one of those pesky branches put a not-so-nice black-and-blue mark on my arm. It’s still a bit tender to the touch.

That’s the only mark I can accurately source. The other cuts and scrapes weren’t even noticed until I’d cleaned up for the night.

I probably shouldn’t mention the hit made to my farm girl pride — courtesy of an ever-watching dad who said I “wasn’t doing it right.” The “it” in this case was hauling branches. (I’d been holding onto a branch and dragging it behind the four-wheeler.) Once he showed me how to work the log chain, I could move three or four large branches at a time. Somewhere in there you can envision a father saying “I told you so.”

On a positive note, I did learn how to use a log chain, and it worked quite well. I also learned how to use a chainsaw because, for the first time in 42 years, my dad thought I was finally old enough to be trusted with a dangerous power tool.

Liberating? I’m not sure. As far as I can tell, my newly acquired skills just mean I can do more work on the farm.

The calm after the ice storm

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There were all sorts of blogs I wanted to write — things I wanted to say, people I wanted to recognize and little “did you see this” tidbits I wanted to share in the days immediately following the ice storm of a week ago. I just didn’t have time.

If you have ever heard the phrase, “You’re running around like a chicken with its head cut off!”, you will have a descent mental picture of how I felt last week, doing my part to ensure our newspaper had broad coverage of the spring ice storm.

Reporters scattered to cover so many different angles, and our rolling blackouts here at the newspaper office allowed us precious opportunities to regroup.

 As devastating as the ice was to our trees, to our beautiful surroundings here in southwest Minnesota and northwest Iowa, at least we had our buildings — our homes, our work spaces and our garages to protect our vehicles from falling icicles. Nearly everyone I interviewed in the last week said it could have been much worse. A tornado would have wiped out more than just the power. An ice storm in the middle of January would have made farm life even more miserable.

Still, Wednesday makes it Day 8 for some of our rural residents without power, my parents included. When you reach Day 8, it’s not fun anymore. Actually, it wasn’t any fun on Day 1, but by Day 8 it’s a long haul. My folks, though, are hanging in there, refusing to come and stay with me in town despite the offers. There’s no place like home, no matter how rough it gets.

My folks finally bought a generator on Friday — it’s operating their freezers and refrigerator, and occasionally the toaster when they decide they want toast for breakfast.

They call it a night by 9 p.m. or earlier because it’s dark in the house and they’re tired of the candlelight. The days of sunshine have helped take the chill from the house, but dressing in extra layers and covering up with blankets is a necessity.

I drove out to the farm on Sunday and it didn’t take long for me to gather a couple of blankets to cover up with. After less than three hours, however, there I sat with a cold nose and hands I couldn’t wash after scratching my puppy’s belly. As a chronic hand-washer, I couldn’t take it anymore. I was ready to go back home to hot running water and an operating furnace.

The power outages I remember as a kid growing up on the farm never lasted this long, although, I always thought it kind of exciting when the power went out. We’d get to light candles after dark, and in the daylight, we brought out board games and puzzles. Mom has already put two puzzles together, and probably has another one going right now.

Fortunately, my folks don’t have any livestock to tend to. I can’t imagine what it would have been like if this happened when I was raising goats and sheep on the farm. We likely would have attempted to crank the old pump in hopes of getting water, but with the ongoing drought, I’m not sure we’d get so much as a drop out of that spigot.

My folks, like many of the farmers I talked to on Monday, are certain their home will be one of the last to get power. That way of thinking isn’t all bad, I suppose. At least the end is in sight, and if our farmers get power before Friday, well, they will be extremely happy.

Thanks to all of the line crews who are working so hard day and night, through all of the weather conditions we’ve faced, to get power restored across rural Nobles County. Thanks also to the community groups and organizations who have come together to prepare food for the linemen. It’s wonderful to hear that through such adversity, people can still muster up some Minnesota Nice.

When the wind blows

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I was sitting near a window, eating lunch on Wednesday, when I noticed a large piece of cardboard skipping through the parking lot, going completely airborne every once in a while thanks to our lovely southwest Minnesota wind.

Not long before that, I was driving down Humiston Avenue and one of those annoying plastic bags was flying through the air at just the right height to land on my windshield. Thankfully, the wind was moving faster than my car, because by the time I reached that block, the bag was swiftly moving across someone’s front yard.

I suspect that when I get home from work, I’ll find all sorts of garbage that has blown into my yard and been trapped there by the chain-link fence. It seems to catch just about everything that gets carried by the wind.

I don’t mind the wind most days, except for when it makes my yard look like a garbage dump.

My fence has stopped everything from coffee cups and pop cans to fast-food containers, plastic bags and cardboard boxes. Just the other day, I found a grocery receipt that got my attention as I picked it up. The receipt showed some of the items were paid for with SNAP credit — the Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program (formerly known as food stamps) — and when I looked at the list of groceries purchased, I saw nothing but junk food. Potato chips, candy and pop were on the list, but nothing you would think of as real food — fruits or vegetables, meat, bread or dairy products.

Needless to say, I am as disappointed in how people use SNAP credit as I am in the wind that blows garbage into my yard. I don’t know that I can do much about either, but I’d sure appreciate it if people wouldn’t toss their garbage on the sidewalk or just beyond the garbage receptacles in the neighborhood park.

This goes for country folks, too.

During the Nobles County Board meeting on Tuesday, Commissioner Marv Zylstra mentioned the garbage he sees in the road ditches now that the little bit of snow we had has melted. He encouraged community service groups — or anyone who wants to see a cleaner county — to help out by not just picking up the trash, but also by not littering in the first place.

Like Zylstra said, it doesn’t take much effort to keep that fast-food bag in your car until you get home and can throw it in your garbage.

From one scoop to another

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Happy National Agriculture Week! I realize the week is half over, but agriculture production, innovation, research and processing happens every day, everywhere around us.

We shouldn’t be celebrating agriculture just one week out of the year; we should be celebrating agriculture every day.

From the cotton fields of North Carolina to the California vineyards, and from the cattle ranches of Texas to the corn rows of Minnesota — from the food on our plates to the britches on our behinds, agriculture is at the forefront of our everyday lives.

Agriculture touches so much around us that we tend to forget it is there — kind of like the air we breathe.

As I was trying to think of a farm tale to share with you, I kept thinking of my own family. My parents were part-time farmers with full-time jobs. Mom worked at Campbell’s Soup, pulling chicken meat off of wing bones; my Dad worked on the kill floor and eventually in packaging for Iowa Beef Processors. My three brothers and I were blue-collar kids spending our summers picking rock, walking beans, gathering eggs and feeding livestock.

Personally, I’d say it was the best childhood anyone could ask for, except for those dreaded tasks of baling hay and scooping manure.

That latter part — scooping manure — was a job I ended up doing more often than any of my three brothers, combined. The goat and the sheep herds were mine, and scooping their poop was just part of my job as a farmer. There was no such thing as a skid-loader on our farm back then. It was pure dirty, smelly, manual farm labor and it always seemed to take forever to get the pens clean.

 Pipes — bulging arm muscles — are never a good look for a girl, but I was a big-boned, German-rooted farm girl, and those pipes I built up in my teen years were the direct result of carrying five-gallon buckets of feed and shoveling soiled straw.

I wouldn’t say those pipes are sagging yet, but they sure haven’t been used like they were back then.

Trading in one scoop for another does that, I suppose.

Yes, I went from scooping manure in my teen years to searching for the scoop as a newspaper reporter and career woman. Agriculture is one of my beats, and I tend to travel with a pair of boots in the back of my car — waiting for my next on-the-farm interview.

Agriculture is still very much a part of who I am; it always will be. And, while production agriculture appears much different today from my growing-up years, it’s still the same. There are still farmers who tend to their animals and their crops. They put their heart and soul into the work they do, and that will never change.

So, thanks farmers — whether you’re retired or just plain tired — your work doesn’t go unnoticed.