July 1, 2011
Endings: another rambling blog-like piece
by Helen Gunderson, resigning editor, class of 1963
latest revision on July 10, 2011
Endings happen. Sometimes slowly and
after a long slide or decline. Sometimes suddenly. My friend, Mary,
and her husband Craig lost both of Mary’s parents within the last
year–her father after a lingering illness several months ago, and
her mother, who was 75 and fully engaged in life, found dead not far
from the campground while on a camping trip with Mary and Craig a
few weeks ago. Also, today is the one-year anniversary of the death
of my father,
Deane Gunderson,
who graduated from Rolfe in 1935 and was 91 years old. My mother,
Marion Gunderson,
died in 2004 at the age of 85.
An anniversary of a death can trigger poignant feelings, prompt a
reassessment of priorities, and add extra layers of meaning to
current events.
Waiting
Last week, while a friend, Shelli, and I worked in my garden, we
noticed that Lacy, a third chicken in my flock of five laying hens
that I had gotten two years ago, looked like she was going to die.
Goldie, a Buff Orpinton, had died last year, and Rita Jane, a Rhode
Island Red, had died just weeks ago. Goldie’s death threw me into
deep grief. Yes, she was "only" a chicken, but having pets was
something new for me in recent years, and she was the first of my
chickens and cats to die. I took Rita Jane’s death more matter of
factly.
Lacy stood still in the shadow of the cherry tree, apart from the
other chickens for long periods of time. The area around her neck
and head was bloated, and her eyelids were falling shut. I called
friends for advice, knowing basically that there was little I could
do–no taking her to a veterinarian. I did wonder about euthanasia
and even called a neighbor I know who reduces the rabbit population
in her yard with a pellet gun. But shooting a chicken, who appeared
to be dying a slow death, was not appealing to either Joan or me.
Fortunately, a week later, Lacy seems to be doing fine. But it took
awhile for her to recover, and initially, I was worried and didn’t
want her to die feeling unloved. While I was gardening alone later
that night after we had noticed Lacy’s symptoms, and she was not far
from the chicken hotel where she would roost that night (if she
lived), I occasionally walked over, picked her up, cradled her, and talked
sweetly to her. My grief was for her. My grief was also in relation
to vivid memories of a year ago when I watched my father in his bed
in the intensive care unit at Mary Greeley Hospital here in Ames. He
was neither in a coma nor very alert. It was hard to know what he
understood, and we had a hard time understanding what he struggled
to say. I sat close and held his hands, which were large like a
person would expect a 91-year-old farmer to have, but I was
surprised by how soft they felt. I leaned toward his ear and said,
"Your hands are soft." Soon he began chirping, "Soft hands" and
chuckling, repeating the phrase followed by a chuckle often that evening.
Faith
I was grateful that my close friend, Joy, could accompany me on
one of my visits to see Dad at the hospital. He had been fond
of her and often had lunch conversations with her at the Red Lobster
Restaurant near the bank where she works in Ames. Sometimes he asked
about her insights into Christianity. In his last months
of life, he had recurring nightmares of a war within himself. It is quite
possible that he was recalling an eighth-grade Sunday school class
in which the teacher had said a person would go to Hell if he did
not believe the Bible in her prescribed way.
I recall Dad being a man whose church involvement was that of
good works and ethics rather than discussing faith or feelings. I never heard
him pray or talk about praying. I doubt that he believed literally
in the Bible, but many of his offspring are conservative
Christians. Some of his long-time, close friends are also conservative
Christians.
Sometimes a
person regresses as he or she ages and death looms larger than ever
before. In his last years, it was as though Dad was an adolescent,
relearning about Christianity and trying to come to terms with the
threat of his Sunday school teacher. Dad was an avid reader and even began reading the Bible in
his last years. He also asked my older sister, Clara, who had been a
high school librarian and his reference librarian, for
books about Christianity. Although I have a Presbyterian seminary
degree, and he and I have had a few discussions about religion, he
did not let what I said sink in, nor did he ask me for a reading
list, even though he was probably an agnostic. I recall suggesting that whatever he believed should be
true to who he was and there were many ways of understanding who
Jesus was
without believing in popular formulas. I also told
Dad that Leo, a friend in his 50s who runs a computer business
in nearby
Pocahontas and that Dad appreciated, was leading a progressive adult
Bible study class at the Methodist Church there. I suggested to Dad
that he might
like to join the class, considering that others of his
acquaintances from Poky were participating in it. Interestingly
that church is much more handicap accessible than the Rolfe Shared
Ministry, which uses the former Methodist church with its many,
challenging
steps. I certainly wish Dad could have been exposed to
the kinds of information presented in the
DVD discussion course
called Saving Jesus that I took this past spring
at the Unitarian Universalist Fellowship of Ames.
Although Joy is an evangelical Christian, whose
father was an evangelical pastor, she has never pushed religion, but
has been extremely gracious. Indeed, she is an example of the fruit of the
Spirit growing from a person's religious beliefs and disciplines. She
brought her Bible to Dad's hospital room, and after standing near
the foot of his bed and visiting awhile,
calmly told him that she had some passages that she wanted to share.
Then she read the 23rd Psalm and John 14,
"My Father's
house has
many rooms
..." My feelings are tender as I recall how beautiful it
was to hear her voice reading the words of the Psalmist.
In contrast, I have been told by a reliable
source, that one of Dad's long-time, conservative friends sat
himself close to Dad's hospital bed, leaned up to Dad's ear, and loudly said
something to the effect, "Deane, there is a time to get down on the
knees and accept Jesus. Have you been there? Have you accepted him?"
According to the source, Dad sort of jolted and mumbled something
that led the friend to think all was OK between Dad and Jesus. I
hope that story is not true. But knowing the person involved, I
suspect at least elements of it are true.
One summer while in seminary, I did a chaplaincy
internship at the University of San Francisco Medical Center. Creed
was not emphasized. Personal presence was. Being attuned to the
patient was. In my humble opinion, even though Dad was on a quest
related to his faith in his last years, who he was and his beliefs
were not consistent with what his friend was pushing, and it was
inappropriate to do that kind of proselytizing at one's death bed.
Even a conservative Christian could have confidence in simply being
present and trusting a higher power, known as God to some people, to be
present as well.
In the few words I said while visiting him, my
emphasis was, "Dad, you are in safe space. You don't need to hang on
for me. You can let go. I will be OK. I love you."
|
 |
Dad was at Mary Greeley for 10 days then went to
Israel Family Hospice House, also in Ames, at 4 pm on a Wednesday
and was found dead around 9 am the next day–July 1. I also vividly
remember his relaxed countenance in his bed when I went to his
Hospice room a few hours following his death. After the Hospice
chaplain led a few of us family members in a ritual around Dad’s
bed, I rode my bicycle back toward campus on a trail through a park in
Ames that I had never seen before. The park and the weather were
idyllic. I wanted to linger, soak it in, and meditate. I also wanted
to keep moving. Then I did the mundane. I stopped at Hy-Vee and had
two pieces of pizza–food I seldom indulge in, but I wanted nurturing
food. |
| I also stopped next door at Goodwill and
looked through the men’s medium and large, long-sleeved, 100 percent
cotton, plaid shirts. For the past few years, ever since I began
checking them out for gardening shirts, they have been a staple of
my wardrobe. I found one I love–slate blue with white lines–and wore
it home. Later, I realized the shirt was not much different than one
I remember Dad wearing, along with one of his string ties and Ivy
League hat, when I photographed him at the farm several years ago. Since 1999, when some of us started this Rolfe alumni web site,
there have been many deaths and obituaries to post of Rolfe people.
There are probably thousands of stories and perspectives about what
those deaths have meant to those people left behind. But in the case
of my father, he was just that–he was my father, so his passing was
huge and has hit close to home. He must have also meant a lot to
other people, considering that over 500 visitors have checked out
his obituary in our memorial board section–many more visitors than
for any other obituary.
Family perspectives
It is interesting,
within a family, how the attitudes toward and memories of a patriarch
(or matriarch) can vary. In our family, there is at least one sibling with
unfettered adulation for my father as expressed on her Blog. That is
not my perspective. Instead, I have mixed feelings–both positive and
negative–regarding him. I also have mixed feelings about the power
dynamics among us siblings, and it is still hard to let go of my
deep resentments about some of the ways in which those dynamics
played out in recent years, especially a year ago–and in particular at
our first gathering of nearly all siblings after Dad died.
As I write, I realize there will be readers who wonder why I
allude to differences within the family and some of our tensions.
That certainly is a good question. In some regards, maybe I write
this in order to give voice in a way that I could not do while the
family was gathered, considering that I am not in the inner circles and
feel like my voice is nearly a minority of one. Perhaps that should
not be the fodder for a public essay. In some regards, though, I
present this as an example about family dynamics and personal,
emotional health in the face of death and the grieving process.
Just as no two people ever step into the same river, no two
people ever enter the same family. A river is always changing. A
family is always changing. It is natural that people within the same
family would have different perceptions, not only of the family, but
of the patriarch and matriarch. It is also natural that people have
different ways of dealing with grief.
Grief work
Although my father was a resident of the Hospice House for less
than 24 hours, I have received (and I presume my siblings have
received) follow up letters. They come about once a month. I realize
that the letter writer, probably a grief counselor or chaplain, is
well-intended, but there often is a statement that is so general and
suggests that everyone is "missing" the deceased "loved one" with no
acknowledgment that some of the survivors might not being "missing"
the person or may have mixed feelings related to that person–perhaps
not even fully loving him or her. I suspect that the author of the
letters knows that grief is more complex. But even so, I wish the
letters were not such a gloss and would acknowledge that there could
be and are a variety of reactions to the death of a family member.
I recall Elizabeth Kubler Ross and her book, On Death and Dying,
written in 1969. It outlined five stages of grief. I suspect that it
was the first research and book on the topic, and her work, which
became quite popular, was misinterpreted to mean there is a
definite, linear process that all people go through when someone
important to them dies.
Although many older people in my life (grandparents and great
aunts and uncles) died when I was young, I did not encounter much in
terms of death of friends or family members until the last couple of
decades. My mother’s and father’s death have certainly put me more
face-to-face with death than ever before. I recall following the
white Powers Funeral Home van, with my mother’s corpse in it, to the
Wilbur Burial Vault Company in Fort Dodge where she was to be
cremated. After arriving there, the driver unloaded her cardboard
box onto a transport table. I hesitated, thinking my request might
be inappropriate, but I asked him to lift the lid so I could have
one last look at her before she was rolled into the retort to be
incinerated. She was dressed only in her nursing home gown. I then
left while the box was still on the cart.
Being there was neither a pleasant nor easy experience. However,
I had once read a book by Natalie Goldberg, Wild Mind: Living the
Writer’s Life (1990) about the death of her Roshi (master) at a
Zen Center in Minneapolis where she had lived. The Roshi had died,
but people kept vigil with him, not only in his last days of
breathing, but with his body while it was awaiting cremation and
when it was placed in the fire where those keeping vigil experienced
a sense that his spirit had finally been released. I had often
thought about Goldberg’s experience, and as Mother’s health turned
for the worse at the Rolfe Care Center, I called Powers Funeral Home
in anticipation of her impending death to find out what steps they
would take after somebody died at the nursing home and what the
options were for me doing something akin to vigil that the Roshi’s
followers had kept for him. Little did I know she would die the next
day. I was glad for the cooperation of the funeral home staff and
the opportunity to accompany her body to that final destination and
be close to the reality of what was happening. In many ways it was
liberating. I think of the mythological firebird, the Phoenix, that
rises from the ashes of its old self.
In the 1980s, at San Francisco Theological Seminary, a
Presbyterian school where I earned my Master of Divinity degree, I
took some courses on death, dying, and grief. Even so, I do not understand grief except to
say that it can be mysterious, affect a person in unpredictable
ways, and be different for different people. Also, there is power in
embracing death and not denying it–and wisdom that can be found in
honoring grief and negative feelings rather than splitting off from
them.
For a number of decades, perhaps since the time of working with a
therapist in the 1980s, I have realized that I still have deep grief
regarding my grandparents, John and DeElda Gunderson. He died in
1956. She died in 1964. I sometimes think I am past becoming
emotional on the anniversaries of their deaths–especially Grandpa’s.
But then October comes again, and I grieve his loss again.
I sometimes think that I have completed my grieving related to my
father’s death a year ago, then I find myself choked up and
lamenting the complexity of feelings I have for him and the
unresolved issues between us that went to the grave with him. Some
of my perspective is unfettered adulation that I had for him (and my
grandfather) when I was a child and looked up to them and their way
of farming. Some of the feelings, though, have to do with
frustrations about his style of discipline when I was growing up and
frustrations I had relating to him as he aged. Perhaps, just as many
schools now require students to take parenting classes, there should
be a movement to teach people how to be compassionate toward aging
parents, especially when they regress in some of the reasoning
abilities. Example number one was Dad’s insistence of being able to
continue driving a car and the family’s inability to reason with
him. Example number two had to do with his hearing and how he could
easily hear what one sibling said and how he could barely understand
what I would say even though I tried to talk slowly and
articulately. Often, though, in my attempts to have him hear me, I
would speak louder–so much that it sounded like I was yelling at
him, and I felt embarrassed. The disparity in his hearing caused me to feel he did not value
my perspectives and had favorites
among his children even though I understood that some of my siblings
had higher pitched and more tonal voices than my flat voice. And there were other
frustrations that I need not mention here.
As I write, I have a sense of equanimity. I am pensive as I
choose my words. I am not choked up. But as I said earlier, grief is
mysterious in the ways it works on a person and its timing. I can
not predict what future course my feelings will take.
Perhaps some day, enough healing will have transpired that I can
be more understanding and compassionate regarding Dad and the power
dynamics within our family and how some siblings behaved in recent
years. But enough for now along that line of thought except to
suggest that readers be kind and nurturing to themselves in the face
of death and grief and know that they do not have to be perfect.
Yes, forgiveness is an important part of healing, but it is not
something that can be forced.
The end of an era
In relation to my father, my feelings are not just about his
demise but how his passing is part of an era that is passing. My
great grandfather and great grandmother (C.L. and Dena Gunderson),
then my grandparents (John and DeElda), then my parents lived on
farms, and the men were to be farmers. That farming heritage has
ended. None of C.L. and Dena’s descendants live on a farm. That
includes my five siblings and me. We have inherited land and receive
substantial farm income, but that is not the same as being a true
farmer. I am a little smug, however, and call myself an urban
farmer. I have a third of an acre lot with huge garden, fruit trees,
prairie patch rain gardens, and two flocks of chickens on Burnett
Avenue in Ames. |
 |
This spring, another era-ending event happened. The Gunderson
homeplace
barn was razed. The homeplace is the farm half way
between Rolfe and Pocahontas that C.L. and Dena established, where my
grandparents lived, where my father was born, and where I spent precious
days with Grandpa and Grandma. As a middle child in a family of six, it
was neat to visit them and feel like an only child. |
| In 1990, I was at the homeplace and videotaped and photographed Alan
Branhoij and a colleague tear down the Victorian house that had been
built in 1907. They were able to recycle most of the materials. After
their work was complete and the site had been bull-dozed smooth, I
anticipated that it would be a matter of only few years before my
brother Charles, who owns the farm, would arrange to tear down the barn.
However, years went by, and it continued to stand. I guess he delayed
because he felt I had an emotional attachment to it. Well, yes, the
homeplace barn has been an icon that has held a lot of
meaning and memories for me. On the other hand, I have been
ready for it to come down and be able to videotape the
process. Razing the barn
In January, Charles let out bids for the
deconstruction, and Alan got the job. But it took months
before a date would emerge when Alan was available to do the
work, I could make arrangements to be at the homeplace, and
the weather would be right. But the day came. It was
beautiful with perfect lighting and little wind–perfect
conditions for getting good video footage.
What were my feelings? Mainly ones of joy. Yes, poignancy and memories surfaced, but it was time for the building to go, and I was
glad I could be there with camera. Some people wince when they hear that
a barn is to be torn down, and in some circles, that is not a politically
correct thing to do. But this barn had seen its day. No one lived at the
homeplace. Seldom was a soul there except perhaps to park a
tractor and corn planter or pay homage to our heritage by
climbing around in the barn. It was not being used for
anything except as a repository for used seed corn bags that
my brother’s tenant piled there. Family members and other
people had already picked over the exterior and interior
wood. The rafters were rotting. The haymow floor was
slumping.
Fortunately, I had been able to visit the barn several
weeks earlier with friends Gary, Betsy, and Luke Dahl who
helped me remove two large pieces of wood from the feed
bunks in the horse stalls.
|
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The wood was thick and
old–the barn built in 1904. The wood was also well-worn and curved on
top from generations of horses, including many Percherons, rubbing their
chests (and supposedly, their hearts) against the wood. And
there were large holes where halter ropes had been tied to
the feed bunks. I brought the wood and a pulley from the
haymow back to Ames. |
|
I had
envisioned having a woodworker craft the wood into at least one
beautiful piece that I could put on my wall to be functional, such as
having a rack for my cast iron skillet, or to be a simple aesthetic and
nostalgic piece of art. But when I got home, I had mixed feelings. Did I
really want that wood as a reminder of the barn in my house and so
easily in my face, reminding me of my heritage? I have bought time and
secured the items in a storage unit, waiting until remodeling here is
completed, to discern what I want to do with them. There is much I love
about my heritage, but as much as I am proud to carry it with me, I also
want to grow beyond it.
Not only did Alan and his son knock over the barn with their large
backhoe, but they dug a long trench. It was 18 feet deep, 12 feet wide,
and the length of the barn. First they dumped large trees into it then
piled on wood and rubble from the barn, poured on diesel fuel, and lit a
match. It was a beautiful, raging fire with sparks blown by a strong
wind. It lasted into the night and next day. Charles and his wife
Gloria and I had an impromptu picnic that evening as we simply hung out
and watched the flames, neither in a hurry, nor exchanging a lot of
words, but taking the experience in. I had brought a cooler of deli food
from Wheatsfield Coop in Ames that I had intended for my own use while
visiting the Rolfe area. Instead, I parceled out the food. We had no
picnic chairs, table, plates, silverware, nor even napkins–not even a
blanket to sit on. But we were content and well fed. Charles and Gloria
didn’t even seem to mind the sweet and spicy, grilled tofu I had
brought. However, Gloria and I were the only ones who tried the pickled
beets. Neither tofu nor beets have ever been common menu items for the
rest of my family even though they are common for me, and I pride myself
in making pickled beets. I fondly recall taking a jar of them to a meal
at the homeless shelter in Ames and having one of the men say that the
beets were "to die for," and another of the men whole-heartedly
agreeing.
It would have been neat, that night as we watched the rubble of the
barn burn, if we had brought graham crackers, marshmallows, and Hershey
chocolate bars. I suppose Alan could have scooped up a small portion of
the huge fire and put it in a bowl or other container for us to roast
the marshmallows and make some-mores, but that was not the case. In many
ways, that night and that fire were better than any last-night-at-camp
bonfire than I ever participated in, and just as great, if not greater,
than any solstice parties I have attended. It would have been neat,
also, to have camped overnight at the homeplace and kept the fire
company. But we did not. I stayed at my parents’ farm house by myself
for the first time in years–a strange feelings with many furnishings
that had already been removed and many accessories that were still in
place as if nothing had changed.
I returned to the homeplace late the next morning. Alan and his son
were there but soon left for a lunch break. I walked around,
took a seat in their Bobcat skid-loader at the edge of the ruins, meditated on the scene before
me, and watched a huge skunk scamper across the rubble. I suppose she
had been living in the rock, concrete, and dirt floor. Later, Alan told
me that a baby skunk had been crushed by a falling rock during the
morning’s demolition work. Presumably, the mother skunk was looking for
her young and mourning her loss.
I got out of the skid-loader, walked back and stood by the trench,
watching the dwindling flames. Again, the image of the mythological
Phoenix came to me. I also think about all the solar and other energy
bound up in a prairie and how a good prairie fire releases tremendous
energy. It was time for the barn to burn and for its energy to be
released. As much as I love that place and am drawn to it, I was ready
to let it go and be able to move.
I suspect that of all of us six siblings, the homeplace barn has
meant the most to those of us who were old enough to spend time there with Grandpa,
watching him milk the cows, enjoying the cats, and being around the
horses. One of my best memories was that of playing in the haymow, grabbing
a hold of the hay sling rope, being pulled across near the
rafters, then falling into a large pile of hay. The memories don't get
much better, but they ended when Grandpa died in 1956. He suffered a
stroke one afternoon during corn harvest, was rushed
to the Fort Doge hospital and died during the night. I had not known
anything was wrong with him and first learned of his death when there
was a knock at my sixth-grade classroom door, and I was asked to come to
the principal's office. Mother was there and told us school-age siblings
the news. Grandpa was 69 when he died on that October day, I was 11,
and the youngest sibling was nearly a year old. Grandma died in 1964
following a long decline due to breast cancer and related complications.
She was 71.
Now that I have video footage of razing the house and barn at the
homeplace, I want to edit a video about the place. But that process will
have to wait until next winter when there is no gardening to occupy my
focus. I anticipate that when I do produce the video, I will experience
a range of feelings. But for this week, what bubbles up from my
subconscious has more to do with memories of Dad’s death a year ago and
reflecting on my own mortality and priorities.
Aging
People do grow older, even we who graduated from Rolfe High School. I
am in my Medicare years. In some ways, that is good. I did not have to
pay a penny for my recent colonoscopy with a bill of more than $3,000.
(Of course, though, I paid a ton of money for my health insurance
policies.) Mary Greeley Hospital, site of the testing lab, is only seven
blocks from my house. Even so, I decided it would be unwise to bike
there, and I knew the hospital would not let me walk or bike home. So
arranged for friends to give me rides. Fortunately, after my annual
physical exam and related tests, I have a clean bill of health except a
couple of small concerns, including elevated cholesterol
levels. However,
that does not mean there is no cause for concern. On the surface of
appearances and not a serious matter, my brown hair has more silver-gray
specks and streaks and has become coarse, making it more unmanageable
than ever before. My chin sags. My memory and ability to focus
are softer. I have always valued being physically adept, but my the
strength in my knees is much diminished and it is hard to rise to my
feet after kneeling on the ground to for an activity such as planting
marigolds and peppers. Fortunately, though, I am capable of riding
my bicycle almost any place in Ames–including pulling a trailer loaded
with such things as bags of cow manure from Earl May Nursery
to my home–and do not need
a car for urban travel.
I try not to dwell on aging, but it is hard to ignore, and it seems
wise to look ahead and be prepared. While having some remodeling done
this year, I had the workers widen the bathroom door from 27 inches to
31 inches (the widest it could go) in case I ever need to use a wheel
chair or walker. And this house, which I bought in 2006 after many years
of living in an apartment, is very user-friendly with only two steps to
get to the front door and a washer-dryer on the main floor and not in
the basement.
When I think about mortality, whether my demise will be at the age of
75 like the death of my friend Mary’s mother or at the age of 91 like my
father, it seems not all that distant. Then comes the question about how
I want to use my time. What are my priorities? What should I detach
from?
Our Web site
I have valued being the instigator for the development
of this web site and editor for the nearly 12 years of its
existence. It has been a great way to learn web site skills,
use my audio-visual skills, share my writing, be part
detective in digging up information to put pieces together
for a posting, and connecting with people. It has also been
an asset to be part of a family with four generations of
connections to Rolfe and Rolfe High School. I am proud of what has
evolved with the site since it was first published in
November 1999. |
 |
That is not to say there were not frustrations. But do
I look at the cup as half full or half empty? On one hand, it seems awesome that 60 people have written essays for the site. On the
other hand, I initially thought a lot more people would like to
participate, and I had to deal with disappointment before letting go of
my grand expectations and seeing the cup as half full. |
Much has happened in terms of technology over these many years. I can
now sit on my couch with my feet on a cassock with a laptop on my lap to
write and a cat beside me. In the early years of the site, this kind of
work had to be done at a desk with large CRT monitor. Initially, the
site could handle only about five megabytes of material. Now with
improved hard drives, it is probably nearly 300 megabytes. By the way,
thanks to Randy Martin for providing the space, technical help, advice,
and friendship.
YouTube now exists, and I can easily post videos to it, and visitors
can easily watch them. To think of the possibilities is simply
mind-boggling. I first started taking home movies–Super 8 format–in the
late sixties. The film and processing were costly. Each cassette held
only 50 feet of film and lasted
for only 3 ½ minutes. I used a razor blade and splicing tape for
editing. What a chore, and the film could easily get scratched or chewed
up in a projector. But now. Wow. That same footage can be transferred to
a digital format, easily edited with no further degradation of the
image, and seen around the world on YouTube.
Of course, by now, some of the ways that this site is set up are
archaic. The format works for me but has little in terms of modern
features such as Facebook, Twitter, etc. And there is no automation.
Take for instance the memorial board section. BTW, thanks to Chris
Simonson for his willingness to maintain that page, his listening ear,
advice, and friendship that have grown through our work on the site. His
has been a manual, cumbersome job to post each obituary and make the
necessary hyperlinks. Even Chris, who has been loyal to the work, has
felt the grind and lost enthusiasm for the work. Hopefully, in the
future, there were be a way to automate the memorial board section.
I feel like the RHS site, in its current state, is akin to a pile of
old National Geographic Magazine sitting next to the toilet at an
Okoboji cabin, meaning that some great material is archived and
accessible. However, in discerning my priorities, I no longer want to be
responsible for it. Yes, I may eventually post a new YouTube video (such
as great Rolfe High School footage I discovered from the 1970s or the
video I plan to produce about the homeplace barn) and send the link to
it to Randy or Chris to announce on the What’s New page. Or perhaps I
will write another essay. But I want to be done with being in charge or
otherwise having a significant role.
I have talked with Randy and Chris. We all know that my resignation
as editor might mean the demise of the site. None of us knows of anyone
else who will be willing to do the work. And I am not sure who has Web
site skills that I would
trust to adopt the site. We also understand that the Web site does not
have to keep up to the standard that I set. Perhaps in the future, the
parts that I developed will be archived, and the only dynamic sections
would be the what’s new page and memorial section. Perhaps someone would
be willing to join Chris in maintaining those sections. And perhaps fans
of the web site would be willing to donate funds so that Randy can hire
staff to redesign and automate the memorial board. But those will not be
my decisions to make.
A few years ago, it would have been hard for me to let go of my role
as editor. But the sand moves through the hour glass, events happen,
endings happen.
Priorities
I get nearly overwhelmed when I think of those things I want to do:
edit a video about the homeplace, wrap up aspects of my
documentary
project about the road I grew up on, produce additional YouTube videos
from my archive of home movies and videotape footage, conduct video
interviews for my church, be an advocate for sustainable agriculture and
the use of locally grown food, work in my garden and tend to my three
older and five younger chickens, enjoy my four cats (and keep them fed
and their litter boxes clean), take naps, go for bike rides around Ames,
get back into practicing yoga, resume making bread, pickles, soups and
other great food now that my house remodeling is (nearly) done, make
calico napkins, have guests here for meals, enjoy meals with friends
in their homes and at cool restaurants, and organize meals at my church.
More importantly, I want to be centered and feel at home in the world
in the midst of the desire to do at least a few of these things. I am a
great declutterer. When there is a shirt in my closet that I have not
worn in three years or an item in a drawer or on a shelf that is dead
weight, I get rid of it either by thinking of a friend who could use it,
posting it on Freecycle, taking it to Goodwill or Salvation Army,
otherwise finding it a good home, or putting it in the trash. And once I
have made a decision that I no longer want something, I am impulsive.
Perhaps I am impulsive in ending my relationship with this site;
however, I have not found a good home for it except to turn to Randy and
Chris, tell them my interest in resigning, and trusting that if it is to
be kept alive, they and others of you will find a way to do so.
Super Heroes
I don’t know how this exactly fits in, but I would be remiss in
closing if I didn’t mention something really cool that happened last
week. On Monday, the day after the one-year anniversary of my father
being brought to Mary Greeley Hospital, I was at a low ebb in terms of
energy and mood. I was grieving the unresolved issues between the two of
us, overwhelmed with all the work in my garden, and frustrated that
there were so many remnants of remodeling left to be done here. Also, I
was extremely tired, from lots of bike riding and gardening, and had a
tight muscle in my foot. All I wanted to do was sleep late, eat, then
nap. Fortunately, I had enough energy to make hair cut and
chiropractor’s appointments for the next day. They went well, then I
headed for my favorite place to eat–Wheatsfield Coop. I initially sat at
a table, enjoying a cold drink, then noticed a weird-looking troupe of
adults in capes. I thought they perhaps were part of a theater group.
Then, as I headed toward the deli, a friend, Alice, who founded Mustard
Seed Farm that operates on the Catholic Worker model about 10 miles
north of Ames came to me and asked, "Hey, Helen, how big is your yard
and is there room to pitch 12 tents?" Apparently, the characters in the
weird-looking, caped troupe were "Super Heroes" and part of a national
association of that same name with some 600 members and in tandem with
the Possibility Alliance based in St. Louis. A dozen or so of those folk
from across the country and their bicycles had converged on Mustard Seed
Farm the previous three nights for orientation and to help with farm
work. They had then come to Ames, and thus, Alice’s query about my
urban "camp ground." By the time I rode back to my house, the group had
already arrived there, pitched their tents, and were cooking supper at a
cook stove they had brought on one of their many bike trailers.
Let’s see if I can remember their names: Zing, Infinity Man, Bright
Sky, Fortidude, Beatidude, Split Second, Wander Woman, Love Woman, Super
Stretch, Star Dust, Gitchi-Gami, Split Second, and Laughing Moon.
They say, "The Fates take them where they are needed." That has meant
22 trips in the last 11 years in 26 states and three countries with a
creed of aiding "those in distress."
Both nights that they stayed at my place, I enjoyed their checking-in
discussion as they sat around on my porch then had a time of
gratitude–each telling what he or she had been grateful for that day. At
six in the morning, some would rise to do yoga and meditate. At seven
they would have breakfast. Then there was a circle in which there was a
reading from Rumi or another poet, planning for the day, and maybe a
mini workshop on some activity such as creating love bombs–perhaps
leaving a cool message, written on a sticky note, on someone’s back pack
on the bus.
The Super Heroes were in Ames for one full day. Many of them pulled
Creeping Charlie and put down a mulch of cardboard and wood chips to
make a weed barrier around the edge of my garden fence. I rode across
town to retrieve a pick up truck that my dumpster-diving friend, Toby,
said I could borrow. Then Zing and Love Woman went with me to get more
chips from the city wood chip pile. Zing chased after us on his bicycle,
operating on principle and not willing to ride in a gas-powered car or
truck. We finished one trip, then Stretch and Love Woman went with me on
a second trip. Later, Split Second went with me to the Ace Hardware
store to get pallets to make a new compost bin. Turns out he is a
seasoned dumpster diver and has had plenty of experience with pallet
duty following farmer’s markets in the heart of Boston where he lived
for 11 months in an area that he found to be comfortable and secure
between a set of buildings on three sides and a brick-lying construction
zone on the fourth side of his makeshift home.
Although I am rather an introvert in certain regards, and having so
many people here for so long of a stretch of time was a challenge for me, I loved
every minute of their visit. I appreciated the gentle way that they
respected each other, had little in terms of an agenda but lived in the moment,
served without judgment,
and went to places such as the Emergency Residence Shelter to help for the
day. They planned to ride next to Tabletop Farm near Nevada to help,
then perhaps to Marshalltown and Collins where they had heard
there were people in need. Then they wanted to see what help was needed
in Des Moines at the Catholic Worker House. I also liked the fact that
there were no clear gender roles. Both the men and women cooked. Their emphasis
was on organic and locally-grown food. Although much of the menu was
vegetarian, they made an awesome soup for one meal, using three chickens
I had in freezer from the Dahl family. They also made corn bread,
grinding
transitional organic corn grown by the Dahls.
I wonder if there could ever be an alternative RAGBRAI ride (the
annual bike ride across Iowa organized by the Des Moines Register),
organized to go a shorter distance than the well-known bike ride across
the state and for the riders to provide public service each day in one
of the towns along their route. That would certainly create a different
public opinion than the traditional RAGBRAI, which many people view as
one huge drinking party on wheels. Of course, that is a generality, but
I am wondering if there is any public service component to RAGBRAI.
The Super Hero visit here was pure serendipity–something I could
never have planned. Admittedly, although I admire the ways in which they
live out the best of what religions teach about being of service and
encountering the stranger, I needed a break to rest when they left and
am not inclined to join their troupe for a ride. Although, probably, at
a younger age, I would have liked to go on a short version of their
trip.
While they were here, I felt a great affinity with them. It was like
having the best of a camp or retreat center experience but right here on
my property. It was like being part of a new family even if I never see
them again. During a ritual of thanks before they cleaned up the place
and rode off on their bikes with capes flying in the wind, they talked about how thankful they were
that I had developed my property into such a wonderful oasis where they
could feel so at home. It was as though their presence, which was part
of something bigger and more mysterious than any of us as individuals,
was a blessing both for my place–what I have called my new homeplace–and
for me.
I
am grateful for all the supportive people who have helped restore this house,
build infrastructure such as fences and the chicken hotel for the yard,
develop the garden, and teach me so many aspects of farming–for
instance, the care of chickens and the art of grafting fruit trees
so that I could have a clone of the 85-year-old Wealthy tree at the
Gunderson homeplace to grow here. I am also grateful for the support of
friends who have helped me feel at home during my life's
journey, especially here in Ames and at this site on Burnett
Avenue. And I am certainly grateful for the agrarian heritage and financial resources
my parents and grandparents have given me that have allowed me to have
this space where I can grow and engage with people–whether the likes of
the Super Heroes, the mother walking past the front yard with young children who lets me
show them my chickens, neighborhood folk who stop to talk about my
Butternut squash growing next to the sidewalk, friends from church who
come to pick raspberries or get rhubarb, friends who live out of town
but work in Ames and need housing when they cannot get home during a
blizzard and make their home here for the night, and others such as Ron, the neighbor across the street who
just rolled a wheel barrow with boxes of canning jars and left them by
my garage door. Last week, I had given his wife Mic a tour of my yard,
and she said she was cleaning out her basement and wanted to give me
canning jars that had been unused for years. I like this sense of
community and family. I also want to keep open to serendipitous events
such as the Super Hero visit and unexpected ways in which blessings
happen.
Song tunes have wafted through my mind ever since the
Super Heroes arrived here.
One is "Hey Jude" by the Beatles with an emphasis on the only lyrics I know from it,
"Take a sad song and maker it better." The other is the hymn, "May the good Lord
bless and keep you ..."
|
 |
| It’s been a short night, writing until about 4 am and getting up
about 7 am to let the older chickens out of their hotel. It’s time for
breakfast. I just gathered garlic scapes, a handful of asparagus spears,
and some kale leaves from my garden. I will cook
them in olive oil, add two eggs from my flock,
scramble the mix, then add salt and pepper for my
breakfast–all very local food with little
environmental impact from miles of semi-truck
transportation except for the oil and seasonings–and
oh, yes, the whole wheat tortilla that I wrap around
the egg and vegetable mix. When my house remodeling
is completed, I will return to making my own
tortillas with transitional organic wheat from the
Dahl family that I grind. |
| BTW, when I toured the garden, Lacy
seemed spunky and in good health. Following
breakfast, I will shower and dress in that blue,
plaid, cotton shirt that I got a year ago and other
gardening clothes. But instead of working in the
late morning heat and humidity, I will probably
catch some more sleep. |
 |
 |
Enough said. Thanks to those of you who have been loyal
fans and occasional visitors. Thanks especially to those of you who have
submitted material to post and have sent feedback. And a
hearty thanks to my
older sister, Clara, who has served as a reference
librarian, proofed many pieces, and sent obituaries and news alerts for me to post.
I am
still part of the extended RHS community, but I am no longer your editor, and my focus is
shifting. Be well.
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