This is not a story, but a fantastic opportunity. Harvard is posting its very popular course on "Justice" on the web. You can also watch on your local PBS station. Me? I am going to try to catch every episode and utilize the discussion guides. Hope some of you can take advantage!
Go to www.justiceharvard.org.
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Monday, September 21, 2009
Attic clutter
From time to time a person just needs to pause and assess the content and volume of accumulated stuff. The alternative- potential suffocation by massive clutter- is not pretty.
The stalls that once housed horses at the barn have become a favorite resting place for any and everybody’s stuff. Doggone it; I believed them when they declared it was only temporary.
But, I have no one to blame but myself for the condition of the nooks and crannies in my own house, especially the walk-up attic. It seems over time a lot of things have walked up but never, ever back down.
Keeping your 30- year- old child’s first outfit and your brothers’ scrapbooks, artwork and rock collection for sentimentality is somewhat understandable. Hey, you never know when they might visit and expect to find such treasures. Then, there are the hundreds of books my father collected. The most precious now line the library bookshelves and the rest are boxed and loaded with varmint deterrent.
But what about the 50 year old bank records that belonged to my grandfather? They are on the top of the list for termination, just after the dress I made in 1965. It has been a constant reminder that I should never attempt to sew anything!
Most humans have a place like this: an attic, a garage, or a spare bedroom. But an attic is the best. Unlike the garage, people don’t go to or even pass by the attic on a regular basis. Things get put in the attic and forgotten. Add to this recipe for mayhem a house that is very old, has been home to generations of the same family; the result is a combination of treasure trove and colossal mess.
Our attic isn’t finished but it does have a floor and a couple of windows that do not open. It lies under a gable roof and the sloping sides are not inviting to folks over about four and a half feet.
It boasts no heat or cooling system and in the summer it is unbearably hot and full of flies joined by a few wasps. Noises emanating from the attic during the winter months would indicate the residence of a few other creatures, be they squirrels or some less desirable inhabitant.
Lest you decide our attic has been little more than a familial effort at waste management, let me assure you the description above does not constitute the sum total of my memories.
Puppet shows, train sets, dolls, card games, chests full of dress-up clothes and a life-time supply of National Geographic magazines provided endless hours of entertainment and adventure for a family of five children.
A few times the attic even served as sleeping quarters when house overflowed with extra company. It was always the boys that got to sleep in the attic; I could never understand why they got to do all the fun stuff.
Forget play space now, there just isn’t any room. Good grief, even the broken items that could not be repaired went back to the attic!
Often I have entertained the idea that I have simply lost my mind. Why else would I keep a cheap broken telescope. I struggle with a plausible explanation. Maybe there is some kind of bizarre security in the knowledge that these disabled objects of my past still exist. It is really hard to let go and move on.
But then again, if my mother had owned that blender so neatly boxed and well beyond repair, she would have tossed it long ago and saved her pennies for a functional one.
It is monster-under-the-bed scary to rid our space of trappings that no longer function, but imagine the room soon to be available for new ideas and new stuff.
Until next time, be well.
The stalls that once housed horses at the barn have become a favorite resting place for any and everybody’s stuff. Doggone it; I believed them when they declared it was only temporary.
But, I have no one to blame but myself for the condition of the nooks and crannies in my own house, especially the walk-up attic. It seems over time a lot of things have walked up but never, ever back down.
Keeping your 30- year- old child’s first outfit and your brothers’ scrapbooks, artwork and rock collection for sentimentality is somewhat understandable. Hey, you never know when they might visit and expect to find such treasures. Then, there are the hundreds of books my father collected. The most precious now line the library bookshelves and the rest are boxed and loaded with varmint deterrent.
But what about the 50 year old bank records that belonged to my grandfather? They are on the top of the list for termination, just after the dress I made in 1965. It has been a constant reminder that I should never attempt to sew anything!
Most humans have a place like this: an attic, a garage, or a spare bedroom. But an attic is the best. Unlike the garage, people don’t go to or even pass by the attic on a regular basis. Things get put in the attic and forgotten. Add to this recipe for mayhem a house that is very old, has been home to generations of the same family; the result is a combination of treasure trove and colossal mess.
Our attic isn’t finished but it does have a floor and a couple of windows that do not open. It lies under a gable roof and the sloping sides are not inviting to folks over about four and a half feet.
It boasts no heat or cooling system and in the summer it is unbearably hot and full of flies joined by a few wasps. Noises emanating from the attic during the winter months would indicate the residence of a few other creatures, be they squirrels or some less desirable inhabitant.
Lest you decide our attic has been little more than a familial effort at waste management, let me assure you the description above does not constitute the sum total of my memories.
Puppet shows, train sets, dolls, card games, chests full of dress-up clothes and a life-time supply of National Geographic magazines provided endless hours of entertainment and adventure for a family of five children.
A few times the attic even served as sleeping quarters when house overflowed with extra company. It was always the boys that got to sleep in the attic; I could never understand why they got to do all the fun stuff.
Forget play space now, there just isn’t any room. Good grief, even the broken items that could not be repaired went back to the attic!
Often I have entertained the idea that I have simply lost my mind. Why else would I keep a cheap broken telescope. I struggle with a plausible explanation. Maybe there is some kind of bizarre security in the knowledge that these disabled objects of my past still exist. It is really hard to let go and move on.
But then again, if my mother had owned that blender so neatly boxed and well beyond repair, she would have tossed it long ago and saved her pennies for a functional one.
It is monster-under-the-bed scary to rid our space of trappings that no longer function, but imagine the room soon to be available for new ideas and new stuff.
Until next time, be well.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
The Top of the Mountain
As humans, we just cannot sustain a constant Mad Hatter style dashing about and the eternal engagement in nothing less than the pithiest issues. Every now and again, a reprieve is necessary to the maintenance of at least a semblance of sanity. And so, I pause, reminisce, relive and report on those moments in my day-to-day life be they current or simply the fondest of memories.
In the childhood life of a Nelson living on the Reva farm, there was little opportunity for boredom or for that matter, trouble, at least not any serious trouble. The occasional misbehavior, resulting in no TV, no dessert or being grounded, will have to be a story for another day.
I am often drawn to thoughts of summers spent with my siblings at the farm under the rule of a father who adamantly believed in child labor. The truth is he believed that everyone should labor and children were no exception.
Knowing full well that no one else in their right mind would employ us before the age of 12 or 13, he designed a work plan that would include even the youngest at the tender age of six. There was always a job, and we were compensated financially for our endeavors.
Hard at it by 6:30am, we would work until about noon. I think he began to feel sorry for us when it got really hot and would change the schedule of activities after lunch. The mornings were spent in fruitful tasks that varied with the season. Often we walked behind a wagon clearing the fields of loose rocks or spent the hours chopping thistles and “skunk” cabbage, burning creek banks, repairing fences or worming the sheep.
During hay making season my size limited my ability to contribute; I was assigned the job of driving the tractor while the bigger children picked up the bales. No matter how hard I tried, I invariably threw someone off the wagon with my consistent clutch popping. Dad would get pretty upset, but the boys would just laugh.
Weekends brought a welcome afternoon of free time much of it being spent in the woods on the top of Bruce’s Mtn., building forts, flying off into space in the most fantastic rocket ship or saving the world from all the bad guys with our six shooters.
Today the rocket ship has disappeared, but a few newly fallen trees have become the latest fantasy. Oh, but for the presence of children with limitless imaginations.
The mountain top remains a source of simple, exciting, unsupervised and boundless fun. Stay tuned for more reports from the top of the mountain.
Until next time, be well.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Scout confronts a monster!
The weather forecast was for late night storms followed by a full day of rain and there was mowing to be done. If I waited for the rain, the pasture would require at least a couple of days to dry and the lawn would demand more time than I could afford to rake the clippings. It was a narrow window, but if I used the farm tractor for the large open areas, then hit the tight areas with the lawn mower, I could accomplish the task before nightfall. It was a good plan, and I take immense pleasure in riding the tractor at dusk.
It was about 7:15 PM: I had just left the pasture and was headed for the expanse of lawn toward the back field when Scout, the now-13- month- old Jack Russell darted by with something large in her mouth. Scout lost her brother, Doolittle, last fall to an uncontrollable desire to chase vehicles. Since then, she has relied heavily on the companionship of Buddy, the golden-haired sage of all that is grand and glorious regarding farm life.
Buddy, despite his bowed legs and a protruding lower jaw, is the quintessential hunter, but Scout, not so much. He allows her to observe, and I have witnessed her practicing with some success on butterflies, moths and lesser flying objects. It was not a total surprise to discover that the large object proudly held between her teeth was a bird, of the Woodcock variety.
Thinking first that it was originally Buddy’s catch, as he has allowed some sharing of the victims but only after they are in a thoroughly disgusting condition, but Buddy was uninterested. Buddy really isn’t agile enough to capture butterflies and birds. No, this had to be Scout’s first supreme success story.
Scout is fond of burying her treasures – little dog treats tucked into hidey holes throughout the house- the bird quickly disappeared. I bemoaned the death of the creature, but found balance in the flow of nature. It was now backed to the task at hand.
About 45 minutes later and while proceeding to make the switch to the lawn mower, my attention was diverted again by some really weird noises, sort of a mixture of growling and barking. Following the direction of the sounds, I found Buddy lying innocently under the day lilies and not the source of my concern.
Louder and more pronounced the racket emanated from a corner of the yard thickly covered with English Ivy. The tent –like VanHoutte Spirea and Forsythia bushes rising seven feet above the ground cover kept the activities hidden from view. The commotion was becoming more agitated, and I was becoming extremely nervous.
Timidly pulling back the branches of the bush, I discovered Scout in hot pursuit of some unfortunate critter. Movement in the undergrowth was clear, but the object of her attention was not visible. A multitude of undesirables could have been residing in the thick ivy; had she gotten in over head and was literally attempting to bite off more than she could chew?
My little Scout, the innocent puppy, had found a new identity: fierce, determined, brave and the ever savvy hunter. The tension was mounting and she would not be called off; it was paramount that I figure out what was being victimized before she was injured.
Final resolution:
I sequestered Scout in the house to insure the successful escape of the baby box turtle.
Until next time, be well. (see pic below)
It was about 7:15 PM: I had just left the pasture and was headed for the expanse of lawn toward the back field when Scout, the now-13- month- old Jack Russell darted by with something large in her mouth. Scout lost her brother, Doolittle, last fall to an uncontrollable desire to chase vehicles. Since then, she has relied heavily on the companionship of Buddy, the golden-haired sage of all that is grand and glorious regarding farm life.
Buddy, despite his bowed legs and a protruding lower jaw, is the quintessential hunter, but Scout, not so much. He allows her to observe, and I have witnessed her practicing with some success on butterflies, moths and lesser flying objects. It was not a total surprise to discover that the large object proudly held between her teeth was a bird, of the Woodcock variety.
Thinking first that it was originally Buddy’s catch, as he has allowed some sharing of the victims but only after they are in a thoroughly disgusting condition, but Buddy was uninterested. Buddy really isn’t agile enough to capture butterflies and birds. No, this had to be Scout’s first supreme success story.
Scout is fond of burying her treasures – little dog treats tucked into hidey holes throughout the house- the bird quickly disappeared. I bemoaned the death of the creature, but found balance in the flow of nature. It was now backed to the task at hand.
About 45 minutes later and while proceeding to make the switch to the lawn mower, my attention was diverted again by some really weird noises, sort of a mixture of growling and barking. Following the direction of the sounds, I found Buddy lying innocently under the day lilies and not the source of my concern.
Louder and more pronounced the racket emanated from a corner of the yard thickly covered with English Ivy. The tent –like VanHoutte Spirea and Forsythia bushes rising seven feet above the ground cover kept the activities hidden from view. The commotion was becoming more agitated, and I was becoming extremely nervous.
Timidly pulling back the branches of the bush, I discovered Scout in hot pursuit of some unfortunate critter. Movement in the undergrowth was clear, but the object of her attention was not visible. A multitude of undesirables could have been residing in the thick ivy; had she gotten in over head and was literally attempting to bite off more than she could chew?
My little Scout, the innocent puppy, had found a new identity: fierce, determined, brave and the ever savvy hunter. The tension was mounting and she would not be called off; it was paramount that I figure out what was being victimized before she was injured.
Final resolution:
I sequestered Scout in the house to insure the successful escape of the baby box turtle.
Until next time, be well. (see pic below)
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
Some things you just cannot fight
On the farm there are just some things you cannot fight. Some might describe it as a lesson in the natural order of things, a lesson in humility, or simply a reminder that as humans we are unable to control absolutely everything. I like it; it creates a mandate for flexibility and the proverbial backup plan or plans as the plural is more often the case.
Fortunately, I headed out early this morning and was able to complete a large amount of the field-mowing tasks before the right front tire went flat, again. It is the same tire as last week and just as flat- that would be not a little, but like a pancake.
I jacked up the tractor, with the front end loader- a cool trick I learned only a couple of years ago, oh, well better late than never. Once the lugs were off and the tire a free agent with considerable effort the tire was hoisted into the back of the car and rushed to the tractor-tire-fixit-place. Sad for me, the specialist in tractor tires was away on a road call; I would have to leave the tire and move on to another project.
I ran by the hardware store to pick up some supplies needed to provide band aid surgery for the lawn mower and a repair venture on a friend’s chair. It was looking like rain and both those endeavors could be done under roof.
The lawn mower is an interesting problem involving a short pin that stabilizes the driver’s seat. The pin fell out and I wasn’t too worried. After all, it wasn’t part of the engine or the mower deck. Then it started backfiring and cutting off. At first I thought I was out of gas and then I figured it out. Now that the seat could not be stabilized, pressure could not be maintained on the gizmo that sends a signal to the engine to keep running. I have mowed the entire yard and it’s a big one, sitting in just the right position, slightly forward and definitely starboard. Yesterday was most embarrassing as there were painters here and I know they thought I was an absolute idiot for operating the mower with such a sick sounding engine.
I did seek professional help and was informed that I could not replace the pin, but would have to replace the entire seat frame instead. I did not even ask “how much;” I simply said thank you and left. The service man was a fellow after my own heart and suggested that I drill out the hole and fix it with a bolt. I have the bolt and picked up the proper drill bit. I hopefully will be back in the mowing business by evening.
Anyway, the painters were back today to power wash the roof. They are great guys, after they fixed the leak in the hose and figured out that the tip needed to run the additive through the hose was nonexistent, it began to rain. In hopes that the storm wouldn’t last too long, they sit enjoying the afternoon on the side porch.
As for me, I am onto plan G. Until next week, be well.
Fortunately, I headed out early this morning and was able to complete a large amount of the field-mowing tasks before the right front tire went flat, again. It is the same tire as last week and just as flat- that would be not a little, but like a pancake.
I jacked up the tractor, with the front end loader- a cool trick I learned only a couple of years ago, oh, well better late than never. Once the lugs were off and the tire a free agent with considerable effort the tire was hoisted into the back of the car and rushed to the tractor-tire-fixit-place. Sad for me, the specialist in tractor tires was away on a road call; I would have to leave the tire and move on to another project.
I ran by the hardware store to pick up some supplies needed to provide band aid surgery for the lawn mower and a repair venture on a friend’s chair. It was looking like rain and both those endeavors could be done under roof.
The lawn mower is an interesting problem involving a short pin that stabilizes the driver’s seat. The pin fell out and I wasn’t too worried. After all, it wasn’t part of the engine or the mower deck. Then it started backfiring and cutting off. At first I thought I was out of gas and then I figured it out. Now that the seat could not be stabilized, pressure could not be maintained on the gizmo that sends a signal to the engine to keep running. I have mowed the entire yard and it’s a big one, sitting in just the right position, slightly forward and definitely starboard. Yesterday was most embarrassing as there were painters here and I know they thought I was an absolute idiot for operating the mower with such a sick sounding engine.
I did seek professional help and was informed that I could not replace the pin, but would have to replace the entire seat frame instead. I did not even ask “how much;” I simply said thank you and left. The service man was a fellow after my own heart and suggested that I drill out the hole and fix it with a bolt. I have the bolt and picked up the proper drill bit. I hopefully will be back in the mowing business by evening.
Anyway, the painters were back today to power wash the roof. They are great guys, after they fixed the leak in the hose and figured out that the tip needed to run the additive through the hose was nonexistent, it began to rain. In hopes that the storm wouldn’t last too long, they sit enjoying the afternoon on the side porch.
As for me, I am onto plan G. Until next week, be well.
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