Some Enchanted Evening

       I lost my glasses again over the weekend. At least I thought I did when I came out of the woods on Sunday. Yet, miraculously, when we returned the following day, I found them just off the tire track in the deep snow. I would never have seen them had they not dropped just as they did and the glasses would have been crushed if they had dropped one inch closer to the tire. The forces in nature came together to save a pair of glasses. I don't want to make too much of this because I have had lots of experiences where just the opposite occurred. It's just that it got me thinking about how other innocent connections have had huge influences in my life. Take South Pacific, for example. When Parker High School, the place I taught for so long, announced it was doing the classic Rodgers and Hammerstein musical, I found myself noticing those serendipitous forces in nature again.
       When I was a junior in high school in Mukwonago, WI, I was fully involved in our small, rural school. I played sports, sang in choir, marched in the band, and participated in the "class play." The "class play" was an interesting phenomenon at many small schools. School administrators, often former coaches or tech ed teachers, recognized that drawing pictures and making music seemed reasonable things for kids to do.They often couldn't make sense of the sculptures or paintings, but having the choir sing Christmas concerts and the band march at the football game was fine. What could it hurt? Most people sang in the shower or doodled pictures when they did their "real" jobs. The same thing was true when kids did little pageants and shows. What could be cuter than a child dressed up like a Pilgrim or an "Indian" standing on stage? What harm could come from having high school students stage another of those Shakespeare plays? Of course there was no money to hire professionals who were actually trained in theatre arts, so they had to depend on the teachers who needed a few extra dollars or those who actually wanted to do theatre. At Mukwonago, we had both while I was there. Needless to say, students learned little about the specific practical skills the theatre requires nor the enormous discipline required to create powerful performances. We learned some lines, put on our homemade costumes, and went out on stage. Yet, in certain almost magical moments on stage, even we got a glimpse of the intense emotional power that theatre produces. Of course, I didn't understand it then. (I'm not sure I fully understand it even now.) I just thought it was fun to make believe I was someone else. Then, the state of Wisconsin started constructing Interstate 43 right down the middle of our farm.
        Actually they didn't start the construction right then, but we knew it was coming. We had auctioned off our cattle and farm equipment and my dad used the money to build a new house on land that once was a pasture. In the spring of my junior year, I moved into a house that actually had a shower AND a bathtub. I even got to have my own bedroom because my brothers were out on their own. More important was the absence of farm chores. There are lots of people who talk about the charm of living on a farm, especially if they have never lived on one. Farming is just hard, often tedious work. When we moved to our new house, we were no longer farmers. Oh, my dad tried to pretend we still were. He had a couple horses and some chickens and he still had me getting up at dawn on weekends. But we no longer had a hundred cows to feed or a few hundred acres to farm. We were civilians and living in a new house to boot! I'm pretty sure the Department of Transportation didn't realize what it had done.
        And then there were also the dancing lessons. To this day I don't really know how the idea for dancing lessons came about. Remember, I was a farm kid jock who went to a rural high school. No guy I knew ever said, "You know, I just wish we had a modern dance class here at MUHS," although we did secretly admire those who could polka and do the twist. In any case, my mother signed me up for a Jazz Dance class as a birthday present. She claimed she did it because she had a friend whose daughter was starting a business in a nearby town, but I may have influenced her decision when I wrote an essay about professional football players studying ballet to improve coordination and flexibility. I didn't tell any of my friends, but I loved that class. I wasn't very good, but it helped me understand a whole world of things about artistic expression and physical discipline. And it was just plain FUN.  
        As the school year came to a close, all the pieces were in place for my rendezvous with South Pacific. I never new exactly who alerted us to the tryouts at Sunset Playhouse in Elm Grove, but Karen convinced me that we should tryout. I still find it hard to believe my mom and dad agreed to it. Elm Grove is a suburb of Milwaukee, a 30 minute drive on a good day. I had just gotten my driver's license and we only had one reliable car and one old jalopy the kids shared. I can only assume they did not believe we would be cast in the show. Ye of little faith!
        Sunset Playhouse is a community theatre in Elm Grove and one of the few that constructed its own permanent theatre. In the summer of 1967 the place was humming and when Karen and I walked in I thought we were in WAY over our heads. When the music auditions began, I watched performers who seemed perfect for each lead role. They sang beautifully and seemed so poised. I wanted to slink out the back. I would later learn that most of these performers were professional actors who had been personally invited to audition. Thank goodness the chorus in South Pacific has parts for young men and women, even teenagers. When my turn came, I don't even remember the singing. I do remember that when the choreographer taught us a routine for the audition, I KNEW what he was talking about. A birthday present from my mom helped me meet a new challenge. I remember how exhilarating it was to just dance. Whatever it was, Karen and I were cast in the chorus of South Pacific. For the next 10 weeks we would travel to Elm Grove each night to rehearse or perform in the show. I would come to know director Alan Furlan, the Broadway actor who came home to Milwaukee to do theatre at Sunset for nearly 30 years and music director Gunnar Granquist, the passionate advocate for musical theatre. For the first time in my life, I would watch professional actors go about their work. I saw how disciplined they were and how meticulous their preparation. I learned how exhausting the creative process can be, both physically and emotionally. I came to better understand what the term "ensemble" means. Theatre art has countless moving parts and those parts only come together when actors are truly connect to each other. It doesn't happen very often, but when it does, the experience is a metamorphosis. I learned more about how an audience transforms a play. Those nights when audiences wept to the sound of "Younger Than Springtime" or laughed at "There Is Nothin' Like A Dame", I saw how they became part of the process and how they helped create the performance each night. It wouldn't be until years later when I began my own directing career that the importance of all these things would sink in. It was here that I first heard a director say, "Love the art, don't love yourself in it." I suspect that is a lesson to learn in everything we do.
        Sunset Playhouse is still going strong, although I haven't been back for many years. (The main stage is called the Furlan Auditorium today.) The DOT finished Interstate 43 and if you look to your right as you cross the Fox River east of Mukwonago, you will see the house we built in 1967. And somewhere - I hope - a farm kid is learning to dance.









　

　

This is Gonna Be Fun

Late Tuesday night I received a text message from daughter number 4. She was confounded that Mary Burke had lost the election to Scott Walker. She simply could not understand how enlightened, fair-minded people could have voted for …. well, I won’t include the adjectives she used to describe Mr. Walker. There have been other times in the past when my children have been frustrated or frightened by things going on in the world and I have had to use my experience – read “old age” – to put things in perspective. After all, I have had the profound experience of living through Richard Nixon and Ronald Reagan. I can assure all of you – this too shall pass. In the meantime, I want you to remember one important lesson from the past – it is just flat out easier to laugh at Republican politicians, especially the current crop. How can we help it? Have you ever listened to Glen Grothman? He is an elected representative of the people of Wisconsin who proposed banning public school teachers from mentioning homosexuality in sex ed classes because teachers had an “agenda” to turn kids gay? He’s ashamed of us. “What must God think of our country?”  How about Jody Hice from Georgia? Again, this guy was ACTUALLY elected to represent Americans! He believes that Muslims have no protection under the First Amendment and that gays can be cured. Oh, and this … women can enter politics “if the woman is within the authority of her husband.” (I am not making ANY of this up!)  Did you hear Scott Walker say – with a straight face I might add - that Mary Burke was a product of “special interests” and that HE was a strong supporter of affordable health care? Or that he supports public education? What a hoot! And how about Mitch “our #1 goal is to obstruct the Obama presidency” McConnell’s plea to “seek common ground”? Hysterical! You can be certain we will have two years of hilarity. Just keep your sense of humor.

It is also important that you remember the purpose of satire. Satire – according to the dictionary – is the use of irony, sarcasm, or caustic wit to denounce vice, folly, or stupidity. While it is often entertaining, satire also helps to reveal the truth and this is the part that requires your attention. It’s easy to laugh at those who tell blatant lies. When a politician talks about “legitimate rape” or -as in Colorado- when a state representative performs an exorcism of the President, we can dismiss him as a fool.  But things have changed today. The lies have become more illusive. Scott Walker will take billions from public schools, increase private school vouchers, and then look you right in the eye and say he supports our public schools. The Koch Brothers will fund multiple lobby groups to elect politicians who will dismantle environmental regulations and then claim they support a clean environment. So always remember WHY you are laughing. You are laughing because you believe that calling out ridiculous behavior will make things better. And you recognize that satire only works against those with power. When Jon Stewart makes fun of John Boehner it’s funny because Boehner is a millionaire politician. When Rush Limbaugh calls a college student giving testimony before Congress a “slut”, he is being cruel. Remember to keep seeking the truth.

So, as we move into these next two years, I’m certain that our new Republican majority will pull together to support the things average people want: more guns in each house, lower pay, longer hours, and the elimination of the “Cadillac” health plans those union thugs got. (Forgive me. I’m using satire. Although our own Glen Grothman did suggest that Wisconsin’s progressive labor law that requires workers to have one 24 hour period off in each week is “a little goofy”.) The truth is average people would like to have a living wage, good healthcare and safe working conditions. Republicans say we already have all this IF you are a good person and your work hard. Unless, of course, you are gay – then you will burn in hell for eternity. (Sorry. Satire again.) I’m also sure our Republican congress will move quickly to expand the amount of money individuals can secretly spend on elections. I for one was shocked that I was limited to only $123,200 for political contributions. Thank goodness the Supreme Court has cleared the way for average working Americans to truly engage in the American Democracy. (Okay. I give up. It is impossible to avoid sarcasm to expose stupidity.)

I know things are going to get truly funny, but I hope the joke isn’t on us. Fortunately, we can always count on Iowa. First, there was level headed Michelle Bachmann and now, Joni Ernst. When she’s not castrating pigs, she likes to show off her “beautiful little Smith & Wesson”. Thank goodness she understands that climate change is a hoax, that social security is way too effective and should be privatized, that abortion providers should be punished, and that hard working Americans should not have to put up with the “takers” who are lazy and irresponsible. And I haven’t even mentioned Louie Gohmert……. (To be continued…)

It's That Time Again

Dear Family and Friends,

            It’s that time again. Almost every year we Americans get the chance to vote on issues involving our communities. This year is no exception. I know it’s easy to blow the whole thing off and say, “Who cares? It’s just a bunch of rich guys paying to get politicians they want.”  I know it’s easy to stay home, but I hope you won’t. I hope you will use the power of your vote to elect representatives who share your vision of what our state and country should be. If you do – if you use your vote wisely – you can make things better. You can help create a place that reflects what is best for all of us. How? Support progressive candidates who believe in equality, democracy, and justice.

            The most important changes in our history came from progressives. The abolition of slavery, a system of public schools, the national park system, consumer safety laws, anti-trust regulations, women’s suffrage, social security, minimum wage laws, worker’s compensation, rural electrification, the GI bill, child labor laws, eight hour work day, anti-discrimination laws, Medicare and Medicaid, Head Start, environmental protection, and more universal health care. These were steps forward for ALL citizens, especially those without independent wealth and power. Your vote can strengthen these hard-earned historic commitments. Your indifference will permit the self-interested power brokers to continue to dismantle them. Your vote counts.

            Here in Wisconsin we are at the center of this fight. Scott Walker does not reflect the progressive values that make Wisconsin strong. He has weakened one of the best public school systems in the country by cutting public school funding and increasing private school vouchers. He does not support the right of workers to collectively bargain. He does not believe women are able to make decisions about their reproductive rights and he supports laws that discourage average people from voting. He has fought the implementation of the Affordable Health Care Act and refused funding that would have given thousands of Wisconsin citizens health care. He has supported legislation that would weaken environmental pollution standards and he is willing to offer huge tax breaks for corporations. Scott Walker’s vision has done little to help the average citizen in Wisconsin. We can do better. Your vote counts.

            When the “free market” train went off the rails in 2008, most of us thought we would learn from those mistakes and take actions to help average citizens. When the 2008 Congress began to push back against the corporate interests, we totally underestimated their willingness to do whatever necessary to protect their interests. Now, six years later, the corporate elites and the financial money swappers are doing great. The stock market has set records. The banks are rolling in cash. The average worker? Not so much. The Scott Walkers of the world would have you believe the reason average people are struggling financially is because they are lazy. They don’t mention that many of these lazy workers have jobs that don’t pay very much. For example, the average wage at Wal-Mart is $8.81. That’s about $18,000 a year. Oh, and the six Walton children? According to Forbes, they are worth $152 BILLION.  Wouldn’t it seem reasonable to require some equity?  If you elect the right representatives, we can make things better. Your vote counts.

            I want you to vote. I want you to find five others to vote with you. I hope you will vote for progressive candidates because they better represent all our citizens. I want you to vote because there are those who are trying to make it harder for you to vote. Mostly I want you to vote to make things better and I have faith in your good judgment.  It may take a while for us to take back the power that special interests have stolen, but it all begins with the right vote. 

Home on the Range

I can hear the buzzing of the motor before I see it, but I know it is my neighbor Joe racing across his pasture in his – I’m unsure what they are called now – maybe “utility” vehicle. It is a bright orange, more rugged kind of golf cart, but with a small box on the back to carry things. “Kubota” is painted across the back, but I have also seen others made by John Deere. If we would have had one of those things when I was a kid on the farm, my brothers and I would have had fist fights over who got to drive. Every strand of barbed wire on our place would have been in perfect order because one of us would have volunteered to go fencing as long as we could drive the cart. As it was, our Kubota was either a beat up 1951 Ford pick-up, a wheel barrow, or a wooden contraption my Dad had created to fit on the back of the Farmall H tractor we owned. I do, however, distinctly remember trying to use our quarter horse Tricks as a Kubota substitute one time when I was about 12 years old. Let’s just say things did not work out as I planned.

We ran about a hundred fifty pure bred Angus beef on our farm and we would break them into smaller groups when we pastured them. It was one of two times I was glad I was the youngest because Dad gave me the job of herding those cows from HORSEBACK. I got to saddle up Tricksy – a six year old quarter horse – and act like a real cowboy. (The other time I liked being the youngest was when I was given the job of tending the maple syrup fire in spring.) These cowboy adventures would require me to herd 25 or 30 cows onto the sections of pasture my Dad picked for the day and make certain they did not wander off into the neighbor’s fields. These sections often had partial fences, so I thought I’d be busy keeping those “doggies” rounded up. I was psyched. As it turned out, the cows were more hungry than curious, so they simply filed into the field and ate for hours on end. Did you ever sit in a saddle watching cows eat? There are only so many times you can ride to the edge of the field and back. I soon realized that cowboying was really, truly boring. And painful. Go sit on horseback for a few hours. I could hardly sit down for supper at the start. I was soon trying to figure out what I could do to pass the time.

My opportunity arrived when we shifted the grazing to a section of woods and swamp that ran along the Fox River. I had figured out that if I took a ride around the herd every once in a while I could easily keep track of them. So what could I do to fill the all the extra time? Along the Fox River? Where there are fish swimming?  I realized that fishing would be perfect. I could set a line or two and easily watch the herd and the poles at the same time. Perfect! I made a quick check of the cows and headed the half mile home to get my fishing equipment.  

I figured I’d just need one pole and my tackle box because I could find some bait worms by the river. When my Dad asked what I was doing home, I made up some excuse about needing water or something. I didn’t want to tell him I was going to be fishing while I watched the cows. I got my pole and tackle box and walked Tricks out to the edge of the hay field I had to cross to get to the river. I realized that I could not hold on to my fishing stuff and still manage the reins. I would need to carry them in some way. The cowboys had saddlebags, but all I had were two leather straps that hung down behind the saddle. I figured I could hold the pole and tie the tackle box to the saddle. I should mention here that this was an old metal tackle box filled with metal hooks and sinkers. It clattered loudly when you shook it. I should also mention that the leather strap on the saddle hung down just at the horse’s flank, the spot where horses can be very sensitive. I did not realize any of this until later, but it does have an impact on what happened.  I quickly tied the tackle box on and climbed into the saddle. I had the pole in one hand and the reins in the other. Tricks started to walk and everything was fine – at first. Soon, however, the metal bait in the metal box began to clatter around. This made Tricks nervous, so he walked a little faster which made the box clatter more. I realized what was happening, but it was too late. Tricks was WAY more concerned about the rattling on his flank then the reins I was pulling to stop him. In an instant Tricks took off across that hay field as fast as he could run. And the tackle box kept slapping his flank to go faster. I instantly ditched my fishing rod and tried to hold on for dear life. It is sometimes amazing how quickly a spooked horse can change directions, especially with a tackle box banging on his hip. Tricks executed a perfect ninety degree turn and I went flying through thin air to tumble on the stubbled ground. I had the wind knocked out of me and I was crying out of fear, but by the grace of God and everything else that looks out for stupid kids, I wasn’t seriously injured. I had fallen only a short distance from the machine shed and I could hear my father calling as he ran toward me. 

“Are you hurt?” he shouted as he ran up. “Are you hurt?” he repeated.

“I don’t think so,” I replied through my snuffling and tears.

“Are you sure? Does everything move?” He helped me stand up.

“I think so. … I think I’m ok.” My voice was shaky.

At this point in the story, if we were watching an old movie, the father would engulf the child in his loving arms and rejoice in their good fortune. Let’s just say my Dad didn’t watch too many movies. Once he was certain that I was uninjured, he proceeded – in his unique way – to explain the errors I had made and the consequences of those errors. In a loud and clear voice he critiqued my mental abilities, my understanding of horses, my work ethic, my mental capacity again, and even some suggestion about my head being in a certain part of my anatomy. He seemed far more concerned about the harm I may have done to our horse and our riding equipment. Fortunately, Tricks had shaken the tackle box free and made his way back to the barn. The tackle was spread all over the hay field, but no other harm was done. I remember my father gently talking to Tricks as I limped toward the house.

            I don’t remember herding cattle again after that, but somebody must have collected the cows from the river. I did learn to be more careful around horses, but I also learned that sometimes the worst does NOT happen. Sometimes the world conspires to make a happy ending. And even now, the smell of a horse can carry me back to those “cowboy days” of my youth. Yee hah.

A New Course

       I just recently read a press release by the Janesville School District concerning the ill-advised – and entirely expected - announcement by Governor Walker to repeal the Common Core State Standards in Wisconsin. This is just another part of Mr. Walker’s persistent cynical campaign to undermine public education that results from his political beliefs. Mr. Walker is appealing to those in his coalition who also believe that creationism should be taught in science classes and that for profit companies should run our schools. The people of Wisconsin recognize that Scott Walker and his political appointees should not dictate education policy in our state.

       Having said that, it seems clear that Mr. Walker has been reading recent opinion polls concerning the public’s attitude about the Common Core. A recent PDK/Gallup poll found that 60% of those polled opposed the Common Core State Standards.  When you include the 7% who are “unsure”, you find only 33% who support the CCSS.  While this is only one poll, it is consistent with reports in the media of Common Core backlash around the country. When those polled were asked why they opposed the CCSS, they said “… (the standards) would limit the flexibility of teachers to teach what they think is best.” I mention this because while it seems many school officials believe the main opposition to the Common Core State Standards is merely political, this poll reflects a consistent criticism of the way the CCSS was introduced and appears to shed light on what school administrators need to do to make school improvement work.

       The most successful teachers believe in improving schools and the experiences of their students. They recognize the need to provide thoughtful, engaging lessons in their classrooms. They understand the need for a coordinated, thoughtful curriculum. But they also understand that learning is messy. What works best for one child may not work for another. They understand that children “come to know things” in diverse ways and sometimes the “surprises” are the most significant. Teacher support is indispensable if the Common Core is to succeed in improving our schools. Unfortunately, the forces that created the CCSS seem to have forgotten that. The top down development and implementation of the CCSS offered little opportunity for teacher input. Those who had questions about the CCSS - especially the standardized tests it requires- were told to be patient. Once they had all the information, they would see how the CCSS would improve our schools. Please understand that the most successful teachers strongly support clear standards and they work hard to help students achieve those standards. Yet, as teachers have become more familiar with the CCSS, their support has dropped. In a recent Education Next poll, support for the CCSS among teachers went from 76% in 2013 to 46% in 2014.  What caused the drop? Misinformation mostly.  Teachers were led to believe that the CCSS was a new development in improving schools. Those familiar with the Professional Learning Community protocols used in Janesville schools looked forward to the opportunity to meet with professional colleagues and carefully adapt the best parts of the CCSS to their classrooms. What a surprise when teachers were compelled to sit through meeting after meeting where they were lectured –in person or via video expert - about what they would be expected to do. What a surprise when they were told they could not make a single change to the CCSS. (They could ADD up to 15%, but change nothing.) What a surprise when they discovered that none of the CCSS materials or assessments had been field tested.

       The last straw for many teachers came in the part referred to in the Janesville press release as “real accountability for student achievement and learning.” Research has demonstrated that ten years of relying on data from standardized tests under No Child Left Behind has done little to improve learning in our schools, especially for certain target populations. Teachers were hopeful that any new school improvement plans would include a wider range of assessments to determine what a student knows and is able to do. They were told the tests for the CCSS were different and better. They aren’t. The Gordon Commission – a group of highly respected, independent measurement and educational experts - concluded that Common Core tests are “far from what is ultimately needed for either accountability or classroom instructional improvement purposes.”  In places like the state of New York where testing occurred this spring, there has been a huge negative reaction from teachers and parents. These are the same standardized tests that are deceptive by making it look easy to compare one student to the next, one teacher to the next, or one school to the next. These tests will continue to narrow the curriculum, promote teaching to the test, and- worst of all - give the false impression of fairly measuring what a child truly “knows”.

       These developments have been a publicity disaster for the Common Core and a time consuming nuisance for classroom teachers. As such, even the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation – the primary financial supporter of the CCSS  – is recommending a two year moratorium to carefully study how testing and the resulting data will affect students and schools. Our local school officials should support and extend this moratorium. In addition, they should facilitate the creation and implementation of district and school improvement plans that include the parts of the CCSS that best meet the needs of our local students.  They should limit the use of standardized tests and provide resources for teachers to create better performance based assessments. This would by necessity require more input from all stakeholders, including members of the community. In the meantime, they should also be actively - and publicly - advocating for more resources. Wisconsin has cut per pupil spending more than any other state in the Union save - wait for it - Alabama. These, of course, are only preliminary steps, but I have every confidence that our local teachers will do what is best for our students. 

       It is time for our local school officials to recognize that while the theory of common standards is attractive, the implementation is more complicated and personal.  It is time to acknowledge that while the Common Core provides some useful guidance as we seek to improve our schools, it cannot anticipate what is best for our students. It is time to scrap the notion that student learning can improve without the enthusiastic participation of the classroom teacher.  We all want what is best for our children.  It is not too late for school leaders to step up and help create a better path forward.

Schools of Hope

     When I saw the teachers in Ferguson, Missouri welcoming their students with open arms and signs of hope yesterday, I found myself remembering a time when a special teacher comforted me and helped me feel safe. I went to a one room school in Vernon Township until midway through third grade. Eight grades in one room under the control of Mrs. Kober. (If you need a model of interdisciplinary, multi-grade strategies, look no further.) In the late fall of my third year, Vernon School caught fire and burned. The official report said the furnace malfunctioned, but the rumor mill suggested that someone had burned it down. (There had been discussion about consolidating the school district and the Vernon School community was resisting.) Whatever happened, what was left of our school was transported to the gym at Clarendon Ave. School in Mukwonago, WI. I still remember the smell of smoke in the gym and the experience of being very frightened by the electric school bells that went off periodically during the day. We stayed in the gym until arrangements could be made for us to join the regular classes at Clarendon. Keep in mind that up until this time, I always had my older sister and brother in the classroom with me. They were in different rows, but I could see them and I knew where they were. Suddenly, I was in a new class of third graders all by myself. That’s when I met Miss Fargo. She was kind and caring and made me feel welcome in this strange, new place. I lived in a family that did not spend a lot of time worrying about childhood anxiety. “Behave yourself and be glad you got a bed,” was as comforting as it got. Miss Fargo helped me navigate a very challenging time and I learned to enjoy school. On the day before Christmas break, as we shuffled out of her room saying goodbye, I actually kissed her on the cheek. Her skin was soft and her smile warm.  Over fifty years later and I still remember.

     As the children in our own community get ready to head back to school, I know they will be greeted by teachers like Miss Fargo. I also know our public schools are one of the most important places where we can try to understand and solve the problems like those arising in Ferguson, Missouri. The thoughtful people I know who work in our area schools understand how critical it is for our children to learn about and talk about the social issues that influence our community. They understand that just learning how to read, write, and calculate is not enough. True education requires that we use those skills to solve problems and help each other. The teachers that I know understand that learning does not take place in a vacuum. Each child is on a personal journey to try and make sense of the world. Let’s hope – as this new school year begins – we can help each child and in the process help our own communities grow stronger and wiser.

 

A Poem:

In Praise of a Teacher

by Nikki Giovanni

 

The reason Miss Delaney was my favorite teacher, not just my
favorite English teacher, is that she would let me read any book I
wanted and would allow me to report on it. I had the pleasure of
reading The Scapegoat as well as We the Living as well as Silver
Spoon (which was about a whole bunch of rich folk who were
unhappy), and Defender of the Damned, which was about
Clarence Darrow, which led me into Native Son because the real
case was defended by Darrow though in Native Son he got the
chair despite the fact that Darrow never lost a client to the chair
including Leopold and Loeb who killed Bobby Frank. Native Son
led me to Eight Men and all the rest of Richard Wright but I
preferred Langston Hughes at that time and Gwendolyn Brooks
and I did reports on both of them. I always loved English because
whatever human beings are, we are storytellers. It is our stories
that give a light to the future. When I went to college I became a
history major because history is such a wonderful story of who we
think we are; English is much more a story of who we really are.
It was, after all, Miss Delaney who introduced the class to My
candle burns at both ends; /It will not last the night; /But, ah, my
foes, and, oh, my friends— /It gives a lovely light. And I thought
YES. Poetry is the main line. English is the train.

Ten Years After

It is quiet here this summer morning. The sun has just eased up over the line of woods to the east and only birds sing as I step out of my truck onto the blacktop road.  There is no traffic and the air smells of alfalfa and asphalt. This is a pretty typical intersection on a country road in southern Wisconsin.  One road has a stop sign and one does not. It’s quiet and peaceful. Yet, ten years ago - almost to the day - this sleepy intersection would become the setting for events that have altered my life in ways too numerous to count. The details of the event are rather simple. At dusk on a beautiful July evening, a drunk driver in a van ran through the stop sign on the north side of the road and plowed directly into the driver’s side of our Chevy Trailblazer. Fortunately, our children were not with us. Jeanette and I were going to visit friends who wanted to celebrate our wedding anniversary a day early before they moved out of state. I was spared much of the actual experience of the crash because –as the driver - I was unconscious. It was Jeanette who has had to live with the twisted steel and exploding glass for all this time. For me, most of it is a blur of images and pain. Screaming sirens, worried faces, broken vertebrae, spine injury, operating rooms, Vicodin. I missed four months of work and accompanied Jeanette for PTSD therapy. I’m still trying to make my right hand work correctly. It was brutal. But that is not what has brought me back to this intersection ten years down the road.

       Many people experience some type of traumatic injury. Car crashes, freak accidents, falls, etc. Those of us who have had such injuries struggle to understand why such things happen. Some get angry. Some are bitter. Some seem to shrug it off. ALL struggle. In my own case, I obsessed over the timing of the crash. Had I spent five seconds more playing catch with my daughter or adjusting the radio, I would have seen the van fly through the intersection. What are the odds that we would be at that exact location at the exact same time? It made me aware of other events that have occurred by accident and those that didn’t.  Eventually I came to fully understand what I only gave lip service to before: many – perhaps most – of the important events in my life have happened by accident. We think we are in control but we aren’t.
       The gravel crunches as I walk along the edge of the road where our Trailblazer came to rest on Jeanette’s side. I had been pulled out of the driver’s window and whisked away by ambulance while Jeanette remained trapped. A kind and thoughtful EMT helped Jeanette cope while they cut away the windshield to get her out. While they talked, Jeanette’s cell phone - which had been thrown from the car – began to ring in the grass. It was our youngest Cassie calling to let us know our friends were worried. Jeanette’s mom talent carried the day as she carefully assured Cassie all was well and asked her to call some nearby friends of ours who would know what to do. Realize that Jeanette did all of this while trapped in a smashed car, unsure of her own injuries, and uncertain about me. (Cassie was the first daughter I saw in the ER. They let her in just before I boarded a medical helicopter for Madison. ) I was told someone came to this site a day after the crash and carefully collected all the things that flew from the car in its three rollovers. CDs, books, pens, flashlights, etc. A monument along the roadside to interrupted travel. There is nothing here now save some tall grass and distant memory.
       The sun has risen higher in the sky now. The rich green farmland that surrounds me here is comforting. Months after the wreck a friend of mine asked, “Did you ever think you were going to die?” I was startled by the question because no one had asked me that, but also because I had NOT ever thought I was mortally injured. The EMTs, the nurses, the doctors all assured me I would be OK. And I believed them. But then I thought what else would they say? “Sorry buddy, this is lights out for you”? It bothered me so, that when I had to transfer my medical files from Beloit Memorial to UW Hospital, I took the time to read what the ER physicians had noted when I was admitted. Apparently I was more severely injured then I thought. They said things like, “critically injured, severe spinal injury, multiple broken bones”. Perhaps the Med Flight helicopter should have been the give away. In any case, I’m glad they were encouraging. And I did find myself thinking I was “lucky” because some things didn’t happen. (You can see how this can drive one crazy. I was unlucky to be at the intersection at the exact moment of impact, but lucky that the car had side airbags. I was unlucky that my neck broke, but lucky that only some nerves were damaged. See?)
       Fortunately, I don’t spend much time thinking about “the crash”. When I do – like on this lovely summer morning - I find myself doing what we all do most of the time. We look for the good things that come out of the bad. The kindness we received, the support my family gave me, the simple joy and pleasure we get from the things we take for granted. (One example. There was some concern that the nerve damage from the spine injury would affect my hands and make playing the guitar more difficult. I did not realize that Jeanette and the kids were as worried as I was. When I finally slipped into our bedroom with my guitar and played it for the first time, I was surprised to see my family weeping in relief.) We all seem hard wired to find the good even in the worst situation.
       When I got back in my truck and headed home, I was glad I had stopped. There is value in returning to the broken parts of your life. It gives you a chance to see how the world works when things go wrong. I think Leonard Cohen wrote in one of his songs, “There’s a crack … a crack in everything. That’s how the light gets in.” Here’s to more light and healing cracks.

 

Jeanette and the Bees

     This is the story of Jeanette and the bees. One day, almost three years ago now, Jeanette announced, “What do you think about raising bees?” If you are familiar with the story of Jeanette and the Chickens, you already know that Jeanette was not really asking a question. She had decided that bees were interesting and useful and that we had room to raise them. (Jeanette has this thing about nurturing stuff. Plants, kids, chickens, friends. Now bees.) I should have recognized the tell tale signs. Did you know there are whole magazines devoted to bee keeping? Neither did I until I noticed a couple stacked under the coffee table. There are also bee keeper groups that offer workshops and training in how to raise bees. I know that because unbeknownst to me Jeanette signed BOTH of us up for a full day training workshop in Madison. Imagine my surprise when I discovered I would get to spend ALL DAY learning about bees. On a Saturday especially! Let me just say Jeanette was accepting when I told her I would go along, but I would leave the bee keeping to her.

     After the workshop Jeanette ordered the material we needed. Not surprisingly, the bee magazines made it easy to buy beginner kits. You might be surprised with the gadgets and tools you can buy for bee keeping. You might also be surprised at the cost.  Fortunately, Jeanette had contacted an experience beekeeper to offer advice. Sam has been very helpful and has resisted the urge to laugh at us on numerous occasions. We ordered the material for our new hive in winter, including one swarm of bees, and we waited for the spring.

     Since our order came from the same company Sam uses, he collected our bees when he picked up his own. I guess I had never thought about how they shipped bees, but I was a little surprised when Sam showed up with a plywood box about 10”x 6” x18” covered with window screening and filled with 3500 bees. There was also a tiny 1”x1’x2’screened in container holding the queen. It was clear the 3500 REALLY wanted to be next to the queen. This is where Jeanette actually got to put on the traditional costume of the true beekeeper. She looked rather scientific in the pith helmet covered with netting and the white coat. Her elbow length gloves actually looked a little cow boyish, but, all in all, rather splashing!  Sam demonstrated how to place the queen cage inside the hive and then empty the remaining 3499 inside. The traveling cage was left by the entrance – a mere ½” slit - for the few stragglers that didn’t want to come out.  It all went so quickly. The lid went on and there it was – we were bee keepers.

     Jeanette had to feed the hive sugar water for a couple weeks, but soon they were thriving. On occasion we opened the hive to check on the bees, but mostly we just watched them. They streamed in and out of the hive carrying loads of pollen in and their fallen comrades out. It was almost meditative to hear their buzzing and watch them settle in for the night. It was hard to believe our single queen would produce over 50,000 bees by the end of fall, but she did. WE got kinda fond of those bees.

     When the leaves turned brown and the nights got colder, Sam told us we had a choice to make. We could take the honey from the hive and leave the bees to die for the winter or we could leave the honey and give the bees a chance to survive. If you know Jeanette, you know the bees got the honey. Sadly, the brutal winter froze them out anyway. Life goes on. We would do better next year. (It reminded me of teaching.)

     So this spring we decided to go with two hives. We cleaned up our old hive, set up our new one, and ordered our bees. We were not available to collect our bees on the specified day, so we arranged with the bee company to collect them a day later on a Sunday. We were told to go to their delivery site and the bees would be available. I assumed some person would be there to deliver the goods. I was wrong. We pulled into what looked like small a farm on the out skirts of Waukesha and found our two crates of bees sitting on the stoop with a note taped to them. Of course Jeanette was worried that they had to be transported in the trunk of the car. She thought there might be lethal fumes. I didn’t mention that WE were riding in an enclosed compartment and the lethal fumes would probably have affected us if they were there. Never mind. We just occasionally pulled over to let the bees breath on our way home.

     I knew Jeanette was a little nervous about getting the swarm into the hive by herself. She kept repeating to herself, “I can do this.” I volunteered to help, but she knew – and I knew – my “help” would consist of me standing at a distance giving advice. (My lovely wife has suggested that offering advice at a distance is not helping – it’s kibitzing.) Once again she emerged from the barn in her bee keeping costume. The hives were ready. Jeanette was ready. I was standing in the distance. If you remember, a key step is to get the queen bee’s cage into the main hive with a marshmallow replacing the hard cork stopper. Jeanette had brought a small nail to help remove the cork, but was having some difficulty with her gloves on. I moved closer to give her advice. Just then the cork pop free and quick as a wink our queen took off on her own. I made a feeble attempt to capture her, but she was flying and I was stumbling. We stood there stunned. What do you do if the queen flies off?  Jeanette carefully placed the empty queen cage in the hive figuring the pheromones the workers were attracted to would fool the swarm for a while. She carefully went to the second hive and this time expertly delivered the queen and the swarm to their proper places.  Jeanette soon got Sam on the phone and he graciously replied, “It happens.” He also asked if the other bees had swarmed after the queen. Sometimes the whole group just heads for the hills … or the trees, as it were. Since they hadn’t, we learned that the appropriate response to a lost queen is to introduce a “new” queen, if you can get one. Did you know there are places where you can pick up a single bee?  Me either until I drove to Watertown and collected a new queen in her own little cage. This time the new queen had to be protected in her cage for a few days until the new group got used to her. Jeanette deposited the new queen and we hoped for the best.  Fortunately, the new queen was a hit and the bees are back to dancing and carrying pollen.

     Often now, on these long, emerald June evenings, I can see Jeanette pause near the bee hives. She settles to the grass and watches as her bees transform the blossoms that cover our yard and nearby fields into honey. In a world that is often confused by what to do, it is inspiring to watch a group of bees that has no doubts.

PS: Today also happens to be Jeanette's birthday. Happy, Happy.

     

April

     April thunder booms across the sky this morning. The sky is grey and the sun is hidden, but there is a sense of hope in the air. I have anticipated the clap of thunder and the night music of crickets and frogs for so long I am excited by their arrival. This is an experience that those of us who know winter understand better than those who don’t. The price of seeing a Wisconsin spring is to experience a Wisconsin winter. Oh, I know there are more and more people who believe they can take a short cut. They believe they can avoid the winter and still see the spring the same way. I disagree. You can take a helicopter to the top of a mountain, but you absolutely won’t appreciate the view the same way you might if you climbed the peak. The lyric in Guy Clark’s song sums it up, “...two things money can’t buy, true love and homegrown tomatoes.” You can’t find home grown tomatoes in a store. There are no short cuts to any place worth going. Spring in Wisconsin is one of those places.

     April has always been a weird month anyway. Did you know April is the official Adopt a Greyhound Month? They have there own website and everything. It’s also Alcohol Awareness Month. I know a few guys who probably could provide some insight to that one. Since 1996 April has also been National Poetry Month. I think April is a perfect month for poetry because - as Mark Twain said of spring fever, “…You want something but you don’t know exactly what it is and it makes your heart ache.” The snowmelts, the grass turns green, and hearts move.

     When I was a kid on the farm, spring arrived when the frogs began to sing at night. The streams would turn wild and the fields would get muddy. I sent dozens of messages down stream believing they all would end in the sea. Some in bottles, others connected to sticks, always hoping someone in a far off land would read my message and contact me. I’m still waiting because now I know for certain the Fox flows into the Illinois, the Illinois into the Mississippi, and the Mississippi into the wide, endless sea. Someone just found a note in a bottle that was 100 years old. Who knows? I might be next. (I don’t remember if I put a date on my note and I know our farm address does not exist anymore, but how many Trygve’s in Mukwonago, WI can there be? Just sayin’)

     The birds are big in April, too. They struggle through the winter just like we do, and when the temperature goes up, they get even by singing, especially in the morning. For those of us country born, the bird music is soothing and reassuring. Not for everyone, though. We camped in late spring sometime ago and I distinctly remember hearing one camper inside his tent shout at the early morning birds to “SHUT UP”. I know I have a cassette tape somewhere with a dawn recording of the bird songs made in April outside my bedroom window. I would use that tape as wake up music in the silence of winter - a reminder of what has been and will be again.

     April is also a month of personal celebrations. Our twin daughters were born in April and I know that each spring I am confounded by the way our children enrich our lives. Our kids make us live up to the promises we make to ourselves. The most poignant and somber April day for me, however, is, ironically, April 1^st. My Mom died on that date six years ago. She loved the spring, especially the lilacs. I can still see her standing in the garden turning the warm earth, imaging something that no one else could see. She helped me understand that the most important thing in life is nurturing. Everything and everybody needs help at one time or another. Our job is to offer that help, not for attention or praise, but because it’s what we do. The neighbor who is hurting gets his hay put up or a hot meal. The starving fawn gets food and a place by the wood stove. The injured son gets a bandage and rocked to sleep in Mom’s warm embrace.

Thanks, Mom

Let's Talk

An Open Letter to My Conservative Friends and Colleagues,

 

     We have worked side by side for years, joked about our families, argued about our politics, and helped each other face the future. I always thought we believed in the same basic things, just disagreed about how we make those things real. But things changed for teachers and their families when Scott Walker was elected governor. (I don’t know if you personally voted for Walker, but your party supported him.) Ever since, I have watched the representatives of the conservative voters do and say things that I simply don’t understand. I hope you can help me.

     I have always thought we shared the belief that a quality public education is a “right” for every child in America. Since 2008 Wisconsin has cut spending on education by 15.3% according to the non-partisan Center on Budget and Policy Priorities. That’s $1038 less per student in 2014. Your party supported Act 10 which stripped public employees of their right to collectively bargain and cut teacher pay by thousands of dollars. I know we have all been asked to share the pain of the “Great Recession”, but it seems the dismantling of teacher unions is more about politics than economics. All the while your party has supported expanding private school vouchers and charter schools. Is this really the way to improve public schools? Am I missing something?

     I have also always thought we shared the belief that the right to vote is a sacred right. I have often heard you urge your students to be responsible citizens by learning about the candidates and taking time to vote. How can you support elected officials who want to make voting more difficult? They first argued we needed voter ID laws because of wide spread voter fraud. When that turned out to be untrue -and by some courts unconstitutional-, they switched to “it’s unfair” to have early voting because some places don’t need it. Wisconsin has always been near the top in voter turn out. Why would we want to make it harder for working people to vote by not allowing extended hours and voting on weekends?  

     Last year the number one cause for bankruptcy in America was unpaid medical expenses. Every one of us knows someone who has struggled financially from unexpected illness or injury. How can you support elected representatives who refused to address the problem when they had the chance and then have actively opposed ANY attempt to remedy the situation? Even now, members of your party continue to discourage people to sign up for the Affordable Care Act without offering ANY alternative. How do you support politicians who seem to believe having nearly 2 million people go bankrupt from medical bills is ok?  Is the status quo acceptable? Never mind all the stories about people who suffer because they can’t afford medical treatment and are ashamed to ask for it. I don’t understand.

     Last year Walmart made a profit of nearly $17 billion. CEO Michael Dukes had a compensation package of $23.2 million in 2012. The Walton family is worth around $102 billion. Yet, last year in Wisconsin alone, about 9,000 Walmart workers and their dependents relied on BadgerCare, Wisconsin’s Medicaid, for health care because their family income was below the poverty level. Although many of these families do not sign up for other benefits, they would also be eligible for food stamps. Should tax payers be subsidizing Walmart? Amazingly, when legislation was presented to address this problem by raising the minimum wage, every single Republican representative in the House voted “no”. They continue to cling to the notion that if you give money to rich people, they will spend it wisely; if you give money to poor people, they will waste it on frivolous things like food and medicine. And then to have Paul Ryan suggest that the cause of this poverty is the missing work ethic of the poor? Does he really believe that? Does Paul Ryan know that in the majority of the families that get food assistance, at least one person is working, sometimes more than one job? Does he know that most of the food assistance goes to the elderly and the handicapped? Do you really believe the answer to the budget crisis in America is to cut food assistance for 2 million people so they will be motivated to work harder? I don’t understand.

     I have other questions, but let’s start here. I hope you will be able to go beyond the traditional reasons conservatives give for their policies, especially why the “trickle down” theory of economics has shifted so much wealth from middle class Americans to the top 1%. I hope you will explain exactly what it means to be a “maker” and not a “taker”. If you and I can come to some understanding, maybe we can help our political representatives find some meaningful way to address the problems so many Americans face.

 

Sincerely,

Tryg    

    

       

If The Creek Don't Rise

     There is a stream rushing through the woods on our property this morning. With the temperature finally reaching into the 40s, all the snow that fell last winter is now making its way to the creeks and rivers that surround us here in southern Wisconsin. This stream is very polite this morning. It is moving quickly, but it is staying in the small ravine it normally uses. I remember a different time when the water wasn’t as well mannered and I was a stupid kid.

     I was raised on the banks of the Fox River between Mukwonago and Big Bend. In the late 50s and early 60s - before I-43 went through - those towns were still small communities, providing supplies and entertainment (limited) to small farmers like my Dad. The Fox ran along the south edge of our land and every year we would duck hunt along a stretch of the river that was surrounded by a marsh. Because it took a while to haul our decoys down to this spot on the river, we would often leave the decoys hidden in the weeds near our duck blind. At the end of the season it was the responsibility of the LAST person to use the decoys to make certain they got back home. The fall when I was in 7^th grade, the decoys never got home. There is some disagreement between my brothers and I about who last used the decoys, but the fact remains they were left behind. As I recall now, we knew the decoy bag was securely tied to a tree and we just figured we would collect the decoys when the weather warmed up. Pa would never know the difference. Then the Fox went wild.

     The Fox River is a very typical Wisconsin river that meanders through the countryside most of the year. In the spring it often spills over and fills the marshes along its banks, but it does so moderately. This particular spring the flooding was amazing. The gentle Fox became this torrent of dark, swirling water and debris. Alarmed by the rise in water and worried about my Dad’s consequences, I made perhaps the dumbest decision in my life. I decided to go after the decoys. Alone.

     Being the youngest in the family, I often got the hand me downs from my brothers. Unfortunately, none of them had ever handed down a pair of waders or even hip boots. The only water proof boots I had went just to my knees. I knew I was going to get wet, but I figured I could handle it. I set off on the half mile hike to the river determined to get our decoys. I was startled by how far the water had already risen. A part of the woods that would generally only get muddy was now knee deep in water. I made my way through the first water, but soon was confronted with a much deeper pool. I tried to make my way across without getting wet, but the pool was too deep. Chilly spring river water flooded my boots, but I pressed on. As I got closer to the river, I could not recognize the spot where we hunted nor identify the tree where the decoys were tied. I should have turned back. Just then I started to get my bearings. I recognized some land marks and was pretty sure I had the tree with the decoys.  The only problem was the thirty yards of river that separated me from the tree. I figured the water would be maybe waist deep and since I was wet already, what did it matter?  I started to wade toward the tree. The water quickly was over my boots and soon up to my waist. There was a steady current and I had to firmly place my feet as I shuffled through the swamp grass on the bottom.  I had perhaps fifteen yards to go and every step the water came up several inches. Soon I was standing in nearly shoulder deep water just short of the tree. I knew if I went any deeper I might float and be whisked away by the current. I still remember thinking I needed to get those decoys even as I stood there shivering in the cold water. I shudder now also as I think back on my stupidity. The river was easily ten feet deeper than normal and fifty yards wider.  No one in my family knew I was wading in the river. The channel of the actual river was only a few feet away. Had I stepped into that channel, I certainly would have been carried away by the strong current and left to try to swim in my bulky clothing. I only hesitated a moment before I abandoned the decoys and carefully made my way out of the river. I collapsed on the marsh grass at the edge of the water. I managed to stagger to my feet and drag myself back through the water and mud between me and our house. The hike back was a lot less fun than the hike in. I arrived home wet and exhausted. When my mother saw me she asked what the heck I had been doing, I said I slipped and fell crossing the creek. I don’t know if she believed me or not, but she let it pass. They say cold, wet weather doesn’t cause illness, but when I came down with pneumonia a few days later, I blamed the River. I also believe there is a force of nature that sometimes looks out for stupid kids.

     Despite the fact that we never found those decoys, I learned to love that river. Cat fishing on those sweet July nights. Ice skating in December. Always wondering where that current was heading. Even now, as I stand here watching this spring run-off tumble through the woods, I am comforted by moving water.  Some part of that little boy standing beside the Fox still lives inside. I hope I can keep him away from those decoys.

 

 

This is Your Time

An Open Letter to My Children and Their Friends,

It’s election season again and we here in Wisconsin have a lot at stake. We are already seeing the first attack ads by groups outside our state funded by wealthy individuals who have never been to Wisconsin. I am writing to you because I need you to understand how important it is for you to be informed and to VOTE in the next election. I need you to know there are those who are very happy if you don’t vote. In fact they DEPEND on young people to stay home on Election Day. Don’t believe it? Just go to Project Vote online or any of a dozen other sites talking about voting.  There are some elected officials who are working to make it more difficult for young people to vote. They can’t convince you to support their agendas, so they will depend on your indifference. This election is too important for you to stay home.

You have a right to be dissatisfied. Like millions of others your age, you did what your parents and your community asked of you. You studied hard in school, got involved in extra-curricular activities, and did part time jobs. You believed us when we told you that education is the most important part of a satisfying life and an irreplaceable part of a free society. As the children of two public school teachers, you couldn’t expect anything different, but we weren’t alone. Almost every politician in America has talked about how important education is. We thought we knew the challenges you would face going to college. We had faced them ourselves. Then we watched in amazement at how quickly the cost of college went up, how quickly the Great Recession devalued our college nest egg, and how quickly your loans grew. America didn’t mean for you to be stuck with the bills, but you are. There are some who will say you or your family didn’t work hard enough. Or maybe you didn’t need to go to college. Do we really need all those teachers and social workers? Those art history and music majors? Maybe you could just get a certificate online? Ask those politicians where their children will go to school? Then go VOTE for the candidates who want to help young people get out of college debt and make college more affordable.

There are others who will say we are “broke”. We just can’t afford to provide quality education for everyone. We can’t afford to offer living wages to those who do the work in our society. (I’m sure it will comfort you to know Bill Gates returned to the top of the money list last year. His personal wealth?  $76 BILLION - with a B - Billion dollars.)  These are the same folks who argue that we can’t afford collective bargaining and unions because when working people have power, they just ask for TOO much. We can’t afford good wages and good benefits.  (Ford Motor Company profits for 2013 - $8.6 Billion.)  If you listen carefully, you will hear a reprise of the trickle down music that failed so miserably in the last decade. The stock market broke records last year. As a young person, you should be mad as hell that some politicians want to pit you against other average people who are trying to make their way. The young family that is trying to put food on the table by working two part-time jobs or the senior citizen who can’t get around without help is NOT the cause of our economic woes. Go back and read about America in the mid 1950’s. We KNOW what must be done to raise the middle class. We just need politicians who are not controlled by money. (Top three political group spenders: Crossroads GPS, Americans for Prosperity, and US Chamber of Commerce. I’ll let you figure out which of these groups is advocating for you. Bahaha!)  If you want a society that lives up to the American Dream, YOU need to fight for it every day. Go out and VOTE for the candidates who truly understand your concerns.

 I never imagined that here in Wisconsin, a state where people DIED for the right to collectively bargain for decent wages and a safe place to work, elected officials would vote to veto collective bargaining rights for public employees. I never dreamed - in a state that championed the power of ordinary people over the power of the corporations - elected officials would cut millions of dollars from public education and give huge tax breaks to corporations. I never believed Wisconsin elected officials would try to pass laws to make it harder for you to vote. To put up obstacles and shorten voting hours, simply to discourage some voters. Don’t let them wear you down. Go to the polls and let your voice be heard.  Demand that it be heard. Better yet, think about being a candidate yourself. Working for the PUBLIC good is a noble calling.

When young people go out to vote, good things happen. We have problems to solve and dreams to make real. You have it in your power to influence the course of our state and our nation. There are those who will claim they want to share the bounty that is America, but they don’t mean it or they don’t understand it. You must use your youth and energy to wrestle the American Dream from those who want to buy it and keep it for themselves. That’s the way it’s always been. This is YOUR time.  Some people are hoping you aren’t up to the challenge. Are you ready to prove them wrong?

 

Love you,

Dad

Blow Out Your Candles, Laura

The audience applauded vigorously and the house lights were coming up. The cast for Edgewood’s production of Urine Town was making its way off stage and people were starting to chat happily and head for the doors. I sat quietly for a moment marveling again at the power of the theatre. A couple hundred people had just spent two hours thinking they were watching a comedy before realizing the joke is on all of us.  Only the theatre can present such a bitter pill with so much fun and laughter. I love that Cassie enjoys performing and was part of this show. It’s hard for me to remember all of the times I have been moved by plays either as an actor, a director, or a viewer. But I can remember the very first time a play worked its magic on me.

            Being a farm kid in southern Wisconsin in the early 1960’s had lots of advantages, but access to excellent theatre wasn’t one of them. Access to any performing art, excellent or not, was limited. We had a few country western bands and the church choir, but that was about it. I grew up doing farm chores and playing in the woods. In school I had learned to hide my insecurity behind the mask of the class clown. My handwriting might have been embarrassing and my clothes might have smelled like wood smoke, but if I could make people laugh things were ok. I had a loud voice which often got me parts in some skits and programs we did at school and in 4-H. I even got to play the lead in our Junior High production of  The Little Man Who Wasn’t There. I think I was a Martian who was invisible or something. To me “a play” was a little show that made people laugh. Was I in for a surprise.

            One day during the summer before I started high school, my older brother Glen suggested we drive to the big city of Milwaukee to see a play. I want to remember this as a spontaneous act, but in retrospect, Glen must have had some plan. I do remember being excited as Glen, my mother, my sister Karen, and I packed into the car. (I don’t know exactly why my dad didn’t go, but he wasn’t along.) Somewhere along the way I came to understand that we were headed to the Fred Miller Theatre* in downtown Milwaukee to see a production of Tennessee Williams’ play The Glass Menagerie. I had never heard of Tennessee Williams or his play, but I was up for anything. The Fred Miller Theatre was a rather small, reconverted space, but I clearly remember the stage surrounded by the audience. (I would not know it was called “theatre in the round” until much later.) As I said, I didn’t know anything about the play, but when Tom Wingfield, the young writer who feels trapped by his life, stood on stage in his pea coat and watch cap smoking a cigarette, I felt the hair on the back of my neck stand up. I was a thirteen year old farm boy who wanted more than shoveling manure and feeding cows. I understood when Tom shouted about hating his job and hoping for something more. I understood  how guilty he felt for wanting to leave when others might be left behind. It was like Tennessee Williams was reading my thoughts. When Tom comes to the end of the play and says, “ I didn’t go to the moon. I went much further - for time is the longest distance between two places”, I wept. I was too young to understand then, but watching The Glass Menagerie that night would change the course of my life. It helped me understand why theatre is so valuable in our society and why studying this art form is a worthy pursuit. It gave me the courage to tell my father – a factory machinist and a farmer who wanted me to be a lawyer – I wanted to study theatre in college. What a night!

I came to know Amanda, Laura, and Tom Wingfield much better as the years went on. Also Stanley Kowalski and Blanche Dubois and many, many others.  I even directed a production of The Glass Menagerie at Parker High School. I tried to help my students feel the power of the theatre the way I did so long ago. To this day I can’t walk into any theatre without seeing Tom in coat and cap centered in a pool of light with cigarette smoke swirling around his head. I believe he is still talking to me.  We all are trying to make sense of the world we live in and the life we are leading. How lucky I was to find Tennessee Williams on that summer night so long ago.

*The Fred Miller Theatre would become the Milwaukee Repertory Theatre in the mid 1960’s.

 

Chickens, a Dog, and Home

     This is the story of Jeanette and the chickens. One day my lovely wife said, “I think we should raise chickens.” Knowing her sense of humor, I responded, “And kangaroos, too.” When I looked up at her, she had tipped her head slightly forward and was glaring at me in a way that signaled a tactical error on my part. It appeared that she wasn’t kidding. Maybe she had forgotten our last attempt to raise poultry when we had gone through the “five acres and freedom” stage many years ago. It was right after we moved to the country and we decided we would sustain ourselves by producing food from our own land. Both of us had been raised around livestock and gardens, so we figured we could pull it off. I thought it would be good to raise chickens for meat. Let’s just say that idea didn’t work out too well. I had forgotten how many other critters like chicken, and how hard it was to protect a bird that is clearly stupid. I also thought the butchering part would be easier. I remember how easy my mother made it look. She could dispatch a chicken, scald and pluck it, and have it simmering in hot grease in a wonderfully short time. This skill had apparently skipped a generation. Of the six dozen baby chicks we retrieved from Farm and Fleet, more than half went to the raccoons, weasels, owls, and even a stray cat. A few seemed to give up the ghost for no obvious reason. Of course Jeanette regularly reminds me of my own bewildering attempt to “harvest” the flock. I’m sure the image of me racing across the yard with a fish net trying to catch a wayward bird was amusing. In the end I found a place that would butcher and pack chickens for the freezer. I think we ended up with twenty five roasting chickens. I’m sure it would have been cheaper for us to eat at KFC for a month, but live and learn.

“I don’t mean to butcher; I want to have fresh eggs”, she explained, thankfully avoiding a reminder of the past fiasco. “I don’t want to see you flailing around the yard again. You might hurt yourself.”

     Thus began the second chicken adventure in our family. We live on five acres surrounded by farmland and we have a long, one story barn that was used to raise hogs, I think. Since it appeared that “we” had already made the decision about the chickens, I suggested one of the compartments inside the barn could be easily transformed into a henhouse. This was another error on my part. I had not noticed that books and magazines that Jeanette had been reading that explained how to construct “deluxe portable henhouses for the backyard.” She wanted the chickens to reside in a portable henhouse so they could be moved about the pasture to “free range”. When I pointed out the expense, I got the stare again. 

“Can we see how this might work before we build a parade home for the chickens?”

She did not appreciate my wit, but she agreed to start small.

     We decided to start with six chickens in a Farm and Fleet coop that I assembled in an hour or so. We got the 6 week old youngsters from Jeanette’s younger brother who had quite a flock of his own. The chickens went in the coop and the coop went in the barn. The free ranging wouldn’t start until they were bigger. All went well at the start. The chickens seemed to like the barn and they grew pretty fast. We wanted to have 5 chickens and 1 rooster. My only demand was that we have a rooster because I am comforted by the sound of a rooster crowing in the morning. Do you know how hard it is to tell the sex of a baby chicken? I didn’t either, so we waited to see what we got. The problems began when it became clear this henhouse could not house 6 adult chickens.

“There’s no place for the hens to roost in there,” she said.

This was patently false. There was a very obvious and well constructed roost area just inside the entry way. Of course there wasn’t room for ALL the chickens, but if they took turns each could lay their eggs in comfort. The problem, of course, is that your average chicken has a brain about the size – well, of your average chicken. They are not capable of working out a schedule.

“I think we should put them in the barn and I can build enough space for all of them”, I suggested.  I was certain my idea would get shot down, but Jeanette surprised me.

“Okay. But only until we can decide what outdoor henhouse we want.”

     The next day I got some – you guessed it – chicken wire and enclosed one of the abandoned hog pens. I thought I had done a fine job. I even built nest boxes for each chicken and hung them on the wall. We released the chickens into their new home and all seemed well, except they didn’t seem to want to use my home built nest boxes. I tried various strategies to coax them in, even manually inserting one or two. They didn’t like the nests.  About this time I began to notice how much I was TALKING to the chickens. This unnerved me. What would people think if they heard me insulting a mentally disabled chicken?

      One day shortly after Jeanette heard me complaining about the “stupid chickens”, she pulled into the yard with two commercially built nest boxes she got from a friend who had them lying in the barn. It was obvious they had been used and rust had rendered a few of the boxes useless. When I suggested my home made nests were better, I got the stare. 

“I will put this one in the coop, but this other one is just too rusty.”

“Just make sure it’s secured to the wall.”

      Again I did the work in the chicken coop and damn if those stupid chickens didn’t prefer the rusted metal nests to my fine plywood. The hens started laying and things seemed good. I should have known better.

     It wasn’t very long before Jeanette announced, “One of the chickens is missing.” I resisted the urge to say, “I’ll alert the media” because it should be known that Jeanette had raised this alarm before only to realize one of our feathered friends preferred to roost high in a maple tree near the barn. Instead, I went in search for the wayward creature. When I found a pile of feathers scattered across the edge of the field, I knew some varmint had discovered our henhouse.  I know we have raccoons around, but I figured an animal that can fly has an advantage. Still, we decided to marshal our defenses and set a plan to capture or kill any wayward raccoons.

     We put live traps around the barn and loaded them with marshmallows. (I was told raccoons could not resist marshmallows.) Apparently these raccoons preferred chicken to marshmallows because all we caught was one rather crotchety old possum. If our chickens could not figure out how to escape a creature that moves at the speed of paint, we were doomed. We removed the possum to parts unknown – no, I did not dispatch the old coot – and we continued our vigilance. It was not long before we discovered our surprising culprit.

    At this point in the story, permit me to introduce my faithful hunting companion Emma, the Yellow Lab. She is the most gentle, laid back dog I have ever owned, loving and cuddly to distraction. She is well behaved and relatively well trained. At the start, her behavior around our chickens was polite and guarded. Then hunting season came. Being my first fall in retirement, Emma and I filled many hours chasing pheasants around the nearby fields. Emma was always thrilled when I picked up my shotgun and headed for the fields. One day, returning from our romp chasing pheasants, we came home to discover a chicken inside the garage. (This is the same chicken that roosted high in the trees and flew like a real bird.) Having a chicken in the garage seemed to alarm Emma and having a dog stand in the door clearly alarmed the chicken. Luckily the chicken could fly, and it fluttered up to the rafter. Emma was VERY agitated and I needed to put her in her kennel before I removed the chicken from the garage. Using a long broom and some creative name calling, I finally compelled the chicken to flee the premises. I probably should have realized sooner that Emma apparently was no longer able to distinguish “chicken” from “pheasant”, but the instant I opened her kennel she raced out the door chasing our chicken. . Now remember, this is the hen that could easily fly to the top of the barn, so I assumed the bird would flee to the heavens and leave Emma barking on the ground. Silly me. This chicken, realizing a howling dog was after her, decided not to fly, but to hide in grass no taller than my ankles. One moment I’m smiling to myself thinking how Emma’s gonna get burned, the next I’m racing across the yard trying to avoid the inevitable. Too late. In one chomp and a twist of her head, Emma has sent this chicken to the next world. She proudly stands with the dead bird in her mouth and looks at me. Well, at least I know what’s killing our chickens.

     I wish I could report that keeping Emma away from the flock has completely solved the missing chicken problem. It has not.There still are villains after our chickens, including two red-tail hawks that spend way too much time in the trees overlooking the yard. But the six birds that have survived into the winter are plugging along in the henhouse producing enough eggs for our family. And every once in a while, I can hear that rooster crow in the morning. I’m sure there is a moral to this story, but I don’t know what it is yet. Did I ever tell you the story of Jeanette and the honey bees?

Turn, Turn, Turn

     In the early 1960s my older brother Glen – 11 years – gave me an album by The Weavers, a folk group founded by Pete Seeger in 1950, the year I was born. Glen, who would eventually become the principal oboist for the Seattle Symphony until his retirement a few years ago, knew I was learning to play the guitar and I think he wanted to encourage me. I remembered that album when I heard that Pete Seeger had died on Monday.  I also must admit that I am surprised at the deep sense of loss I feel. I knew I admired Pete Seeger and I was aware of his musical influence on me, but I wasn’t paying attention to how often his music and his life touched me.

     The album I received from Glen included Pete Seeger at Carnegie Hall singing a song called “Ramblin’ Boy”.*  I remember loving the story of the song about two hobo friends, and being thrilled by Seeger’s ability to get the audience to sing along. At Carnegie Hall! It took me a while to learn “Ramblin’ Boy”, but I have been playing that song now for more than 50 years. It became a favorite of my friend Bob Morgan and I sang it at his funeral last summer. He didn’t know it, but Pete Seeger helped two old friends say goodbye.

     Then about a week ago, at a fund raising concert for the Janesville School District, I told the audience about Pete Seeger getting the folks at Carnegie Hall to sing along. “If Pete Seeger could do it at Carnegie Hall, we can do it in Janesville here tonight.” And they did. And I actually said “Eat your heart out Pete Seeger” while we sang up a storm. Pete Seeger didn’t know it, but he helped people come together in song and laughter on a snowy night in Janesville.

     And just last Friday, I was singing for the students of Jeanette’s school and we all sang along with “This Land Is Your Land”  and I helped them learn “If I Had a Hammer” and, right there, in the cafeteria of Parkview Primary School, Pete Seeger was present. He didn’t know it, but he was. He was telling these children that people are good and when we work together we can be better. I can’t think of a more important message for kids to hear.

     Pete Seeger has been the voice of our American conscience. His whole life has been a statement about living up to our vision of the American Dream. And his message has always been one of hope and optimism. In one of his last songs God’s Counting on Me, God’s Counting on You, when he sings, “Don’t give up, don’t give in, Work together and we can win” and “When we sing with younger folk, we can never give up hope,” he is speaking to all of us right now.

     Pete Seeger’s death has made the world a little darker, but his legacy will bring us to the light. When asked to define his songs Pete Seeger said, “I call them all love songs. They tell of love of man and woman, and parents and children, love of country, freedom, beauty, mankind, the world, love of searching for truth and other unknowns.”  Maybe Pete Seeger’s passing will remind us that we can change the world if we choose. As he said, “We can never give up hope."

*I learned later that Tom Paxton wrote the song, but Pete’s performance was amazing.