Dear Iowa Visitor,

Thank you for asking me what there is to see in the western part of our state. I like knowing that you want to experience more of what our fine state has to offer as you climb into your Winnebago to head back to California. I trust you will enjoy the cities and sights I suggested experiencing as you make your way to Omaha by tomorrow evening.

I also hope the restaurant owner and I have convinced you to return someday to enjoy the eastern side of Iowa, particularly the northeast section of the state. The bluffs along the mighty Mississippi tell stories of Native Americans who navigated the waterway in birch bark canoes, and fur traders and river boat captains who did the same with similar skill but much less grace.

The scenery along the highways and byways as you head east is lush. You joked about it likely being "just field after field of corn." Yes, there will be cornfields, but I think what you'll see most as you ride the ridges in northeast Iowa are the coulees and deep, rolling meadows that are tucked in-between the fields of corn and soybeans and alfalfa and hay. And you'll be enchanted by the cows that graze the hillsides in poised, artful poses. And you'll find your gaze wandering across the horizon connecting silo to silo, barn to barn - amazed at the number of farms, the number of families, who claim this beautiful land for their home.

When you return, you will again experience the "uncommon kindness" that you said has impressed you so much about our "clean and friendly" state.

One last thing: I regret that I forgot to encourage you to begin driving west about 30 minutes before sunset tonight so you could see the incredible purple, pink, and peach hues that paint our evening sky. The sun becomes a red hot ball, irresistibly inviting to look at through muted treetops and corn stalks and silos. Its fading haze diffuses and blends the last rays of the day's color. An Iowa sunset is virtuous. An Iowa sunset is honest - an invitation to another day, only hours in the making.

Iowa Visitor, it was lovely to talk with you today. I hope our paths will cross again, perhaps at the intersection of roads that separate cornfields in the middle of NE Iowa. Safe travels as you venture to Omaha tomorrow, and then across the Great West to California. You'll see incredible sights and journey through incredible places to be sure. But nothing like quite like Iowa.

Brilliant, bountiful autumn: I take comfort in you

I take comfort in the changing of seasons. The earth's heartbeat causes vegetation to bud, bloom, fade, and then blow to the ground as sudden as a burst of wind. Comfort exists in knowing it will happen again in due season - as brilliant and bountiful as before.

Autumn is the culmination of all that has been pushing forth since spring. A fantastic feeding of fruits, grains, and vegetables that have come to fruition - fully formed and formidably flavorful.

My fall favorites for feasting? Baked goods made with Wisconsin apples and snacks comprised only of Wisconsin cheese.

Therefore, when autumn comes to Iowa that means it is time for our family to visit neighboring Wisconsin to stock up on ... what else? Apples and cheese. I think of it as our fall forage; my sons and husband think of it as "Mom will soon celebrate Pie Baking Day." This purely personal holiday occurs once (sometimes twice) a year with the date and time unknown other than this: It will most certainly happen on a Saturday or Sunday after we have gone to Gays Mills and Mt. Sterling for apples and cheese.

We took our annual trip today; so sometime soon - when the mood strikes me - I'll begin to peel, mix, fold, roll, and bake at least three to five apple pies with perhaps a pumpkin and a pecan provided for variety.

This annual autumn tradition began - for me - when I was a child. For Mark, it began the year we were engaged, and for the boys, the first fall of their respective births. This was the first year Skye didn't come along with us; and while he was missed, Mark and I knew his absence is part of that inevitable pulling away. He has experiences he wants to live that are separate from us. That's good. That's inevitable. Yet I also believe it is inevitable that part of him will always be called to cross the Mississippi River each fall to forage like his family has for decades.

Our family is back together tonight, and Skye couldn't wait to eat an apple cider donut and then munch on fresh cheese curds, listening to their freshness squeak in his mouth. Those experiences are part of him; I believe they will always call to him each fall when the days grow shorter, the air gets cooler and the land looks richer in a harvest-sort-of-way.

That's as it should be. We grow older. We teach our children what we choose to from all that our parents taught us, then our children choose what they will pass on to their children. But all in due season. I take comfort in that.

May what ripens for harvest in my son's lives be a culmination of only the best of all that has come before - only the best of my good fruits, brilliant and bountiful.

Amen. May it indeed be so.



P.S. Tina Schroyer Berg - It was so good to run into your family and to know that you, too, enjoy spending a glorious fall day (sunny, crisp 50º weather) together. Hunter looks like both you and Jim, but I think he especially favors you! Yay, North High class of ... (Well, you know. I don't need to say.) I hope you don't mind being featured in my vlog. I thought it was so fun that we just kept crossing paths!

Sweet Corn: It's an Iowa Thing

Iowans take many things for granted: four distinct seasons, quality education, beautiful sunsets, lush vegetation, family farms, county fairs, a median city population of less than 500 (true!), and sweet corn.

Sure, we may occasionally take a moment here and there to quietly breathe a humble breath of Iowa thanks. But in the same way that you can't recognize how tall your child has grown without looking at last year's photos, Iowans can't always recognize how blessed we are to live in a state where - as a friend who recently returned here for a visit said - "it is so green your eyes hurt."

A short drive on any Iowa highway is a reminder that farmers defined the boundaries of Iowa's interior expanses. They cultivated acres and acres of soil whose beautifully blooming prairie flowers hinted at the rich potential awaiting their labors. Farmers continue to define Iowa. If anyone doubts that, just watch what happens when August rolls around acting like a plentiful prelude to a promise-filled harvest season.

Few can understand the cultural connectedness of Iowa's agrarian heritage. How families gather to share in traditions shaped by food. And not just any food, but food from a land of bountiful blessings: hog roasts, strawberry festivals, beef barbecues, sweet corn feeds. Each gathering a celebration of food and the abundance of life lived well.

For our family, the first week of August typically means a trip to my aunt's and uncle's farm to freeze sweet corn. This year we - my family, my parents, my aunt and uncle, my cousins and their children - packaged more than 130 quarts. And while we picked, husked, silked, boiled, cooled, cut, and packaged, we also talked, remembering what it means to be related and remembering how to relax even when your body has grown tired from a good afternoon of shared labor.

Thanks, Aunt Lois and Uncle Chuck. Our freezer is full, but our hearts more so.

Sweet corn. Sweet life. It's an Iowa thing.

A Sure Sign of Spring - No Foolin'

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Here is a sure sign of spring in Iowa: It's Tractor Day for students studying agriculture at the local high school.

I appreciate the reminder of what this time of year means to area farmers.

Crops soon to be planted; a bountiful harvest anticipated.

Hope abounds.

No foolin' on this April 1.

It's Spring!

Have a blessed Easter weekend.
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"When I Was Famous"

This past weekend I had the pleasure of a chance encounter that took me delightfully back to a time my oldest son refers to as "when you were famous." Just after watching my son perform with his choral reading group at the State Large Group Speech Contest in Decorah, I headed into a nearby ladies restroom. Immediately upon entering the door, I locked eyes with Gwen Silhacheck, a musician who - in addition to a vast number of other musical endeavors in life - was once the keyboardist for musical theatre productions performed by the Country Road Players. The year I was Nellie Forbush and her husband, Dan, was Emile deBeque in South Pacific, Gwen watched me kiss her husband several times a night. (I assure you, it was weirder for me than for her - nothing against you, Dan.)

This past Saturday, years dropped as we came to each other and embraced before exchanging news about each of our families. Yes, Dan was with her. No, they didn't have a child performing, but she had several students performing, and they came to show their support. Yes, they had been spending their day watching all of the entries in the musical theatre category. Yes, the Country Road Players still have productions occasionally, but not multiple times a year like they did when I was spending my summers with them in Spillville, Iowa. Yes, they would love a reunion too, and many have been talking about that. Would I be available to come reprise a show or scene? "You bet! When can I come?"

When I caught up with my boys, they knew by the light in my eyes I was feeling younger and more vital. Mark smiled at my renewed sense of drama for all of life as I shared the news of my encounter, and Stross smiled with recognition at Dan's role in South Pacific. "Oh, he knew you back when you were famous, Momma."

I absolutely love it when he does that for me. To Stross, I will always be a famous person who happened to become his mother. I desperately wish all moms could know what that feels like. It's such a paradoxical moment.

Stross references that time when I was young enough and unencumbered by relationships or jobs or plans as if fame was, of course, where I was headed in life. He's watched the shows - all my shows - first on aging videotape and then on DVDs (thank you, Mark!); and based on what he has seen, I was famous. So maybe I was.


And just so you know: Stross is famous too. I love that about him even more. Stross lives his life as one big adventure film with days full of things like ... well, today it's a curling contest at a pond sponsored by the college's paintball club. That event is today's featured attraction. I wish you could feel his excitement. It's truly palpable. And, basically, he will probably watch most of the action, vicariously living the thrills as he sees them.

If we (probably Mark) can figure out a way for him to actually be in the thick of things, we will. But discovering how that might be is an adventure in and of itself. Snow, cold, metal wheelchair, skinny tires, bulky clothing, large snow banks, ice. We'll see. If I ask Stross, he'll be sure there is a way. So there probably is. I'll try to remember to let you know.

If Bowser Can Survive, You Can Too!

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We, probably like the majority of you, are crawling out of the fourth major snow event of this winter. Unlike the last three, this one missed classification as a blizzard, but it sure lived up to its billing as a major snowstorm. And who am I kidding? Mark is the one dealing with the increasingly difficult task of where to put all the snow. My only practical discomfort related to snow is timing trips for errands and helping the boys think of things to occupy their time. Believe me, I can think of things...

I've found myself commiserating with local municipalities as they tackle the burden of snow removal with no money left in the budget for such a task. But the snow has to go somewhere, doesn't it? And we want our elected and appointed officials to take care of us so we can get to our jobs, the kids can get to school, and everyone can get somewhere to shop. Next time you see a snowplow go by, please smile and wave. They are using your tax dollars well.

Where will all this snow go until it can melt, anyway? Even the rivers are getting full. It can stay banked for a while, but these banks are becoming quite high. The last time I remember marveling at banks of snow more than 4 to 5 ft. high was in elementary about 30 some years ago, and the memory-making trip to Ottumwa in 1982 that I told you about in a previous blog. Decades after those experiences I remain awestruck at the paradoxical beauty of dangerously high snow mounds.

I'm also struck by our human capacity to survive - physically and metaphorically. So many individuals - families, even - are struggling to survive financially amid daunting work and health conditions. Quality of life can feel elusive when facing the need to work at a job that is just that - a job more than a career or even a passion. But it's necessary, isn't it, if for no other reason than to earn enough money to pay bills. Paying the bills allows a family to remain in their home and to provide for food, health care and items needed to sustain daily needs. Such a conundrum. (Isn't that a great word?)

We had a great metaphorical lesson in surviving last week thanks to Bowser, Skye's hermit crab. He's been with us since late summer, and the sales associate at Petco warned us how difficult it is to keep hermit crabs alive through an Iowa winter. I'm troubled by the means we've gone to for his survivability, namely a 24-hr rock heater inside his habitat and a 24-hr space heater outside. But, he needs 70- to 80-degree air temps with 70-degree humidity. And no one in our family is a hermit crab killer. I simply hope we are practicing enough green living to offset the increase in our carbon footprint directly connected to Bowser.

I'll let Skye tell you in his own words what happened last week - the week I decided to stop reminding him to take care Bowser or he would never learn the lessons about responsibility that come with pet care. Yes, before I withheld my parental guidance, I did inform Skye I wasn't going to remind him anymore. In turn, he informed me that he had not needed the reminders anyway.

Again, I'll let him tell you the rest of the story. Well, ok, I do want to share this: Skye also learned that ground is hard to find in the deep of winter; and even if you unearth some, it is too frozen for a grave. (Can you say "ashes to ashes' for a crustacean, anyway?)

Good thing we didn't need to add to the landfill, either. I've become fond of Bowser. He's a survivor like the rest of us.



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